Much thanks again to Aussiegirl41 for her continued assistance with British English. Apparently there's a whole double L thing? That I didn't know about?
Gene lay flat on his bedroom's saggy, narrow bed with the flagpole still raised in his trousers. It was less about desire now, and more terror and confusion. What, in the bloody hell, had just happened?
His D.I. was vulnerable, emotionally tender, and he'd rutted on her like some stray dog. That's what he was. A stinking, disgusting, animal. She'd made it clear from the moment they met that she found him repugnant and below her consideration. The one time she'd shown the slightest interest, she was pissed out of her mind and had been pissed off at him. After punching him in the gob in front of a bunch of prossies, he had suspected that she'd just wanted to really humiliate him when she had flirted. Something like him with his trousers around his ankles and his todger up like a bull elephant's trunk in full cry as she pointed and laughed. Instead, she'd given him another smack across the chops by shagging some red-braced woofter in front of the C.I.D.
But tonight she'd crawled into his lap as if she were a lost kitten, soft and warm, her flesh giving to his frantic hands. He'd felt her up like a schoolboy with his first floozy, and had just about as much to show for it.
From the moment that he first saw her, he'd wanted to touch her tits. It was a simple goal. In usual Gene Genie style, he did it within an hour of meeting her. Which only made him want to do it again. Alot. And now that he'd gotten another chance, he'd been 'first date; outside upstairs only'.
"Poofter," he growled. "You nancy boy, fairy, girlie, scrote." He didn't feel any better for chewing himself out. It did calm him a bit and the tent in his trousers began to lower until a fresh panic overcame him. She was giving him horn for all the wrong reasons.
God, what if she reported him? The brass looked the other way for a lot of things regarding the birds in the department, but practically raping your subordinate after bringing her far out into the country alone—that wasn't going to go away. And he was no fool. She was the future for the Met, not the likes of him. When it came time to decide who was going to be the football and who was going to be Joe Hayes in this match, he knew that he'd be the one face down on the pitch with a boot to his arse.
The uncertainty and anxiety was giving him brain cramp. He hated himself for pawing at her and hated himself for not getting in her knickers before she put on the brakes. Condoms? What the hell was that about? A woman like that should be on the pill, right? Did she think he had the clap? Well he didn't, dammit—dozy tart.
Around and around his thoughts went, whilst he lay there still fully dressed, hands clutching the bedding as though it was the only thing keeping him on the narrow bed, staring at the low plaster ceiling until his eyes burned with exhaustion.
Then he heard the roar of the Quattro's motor below his window. Whilst he'd been mentally slapping his face for hours, dawn had come. Struggling up, he got to the window in time to see the taillights going down the narrow drive.
"Bloody hell," he rasped, then dashed downstairs. He'd left the keys on the kitchen table, setting them there as he'd put down the takeaway containers the previous night. They were gone. He thundered back up the stairs, looking for that damn woman in all the rooms. No sign of her.
Slowly turning in her empty room, fists clenched at his sides, he let loose with a fresh set of profanities, this time, directed at Alex Drake. She was determined to make him as nutty as she was.
Alex found a bakery open in the village. From the shop assistant, whilst paying for her cottage loaf and dozen buns, she found out there was a local farmer who sold fresh produce. It was just finding the property...
As she drove up and down country lanes, she had time to sort through her thoughts and calm her frayed nerves. There was nothing to be upset about. This world was an imagery construct and Gene Hunt was simply an incredibly realistic creation of her subconscious...But what did it mean?
Because surely, if she were to create a fantasy man, he would not be it. He was the antithesis of everything that she wanted and sought in a sexual partner. Which must mean something...Her father's betrayal...Had she been aware of it on some subconscious level? What was this creation—an infuriating, bombastic, testosterone-soaked male with the impulses of a fourteen year old—trying to tell her about herself? When he was the exact opposite of her father, and every man to whom she'd ever been attracted?
A sudden thought—whatever his frustrating qualities, at least she'd given him a large cock. Hitting the brakes, she halted the Quattro in the lane and scolded, "Alex, stop that right now!" The only answer was a slightly hysterical fit of giggles.
By the time she'd found the farm, made her purchases and loaded the boot, she was back to replaying every moment of her encounter with Gene in embarrassing detail. Dear God, what was her body back in the 2008 hospital bed doing whilst she'd been dry humping on him...it...him? Face flaming, she got back behind the wheel. Find the positive, she told herself. At least she could get a medical journal publication out of this experience: Sexual Release in Comatose States
Only she hadn't had a release...She'd been so damn close...Biting her lower lip, she ignored the return of arousal, as quick and startling as it had been been last night. It was simply a physical response to a psychological crisis, as much as she hated the thought that she had a plain old case of Daddy Issues. And Mommy Complex, she groaned.
When she pulled in the drive at the cottage, the door flung open and Gene stormed out. He still wore yesterday's suit, crumpled and stained as a fish and chips' newspaper. His hair was a bird's nest and his cheeks grizzled with stubble. He looked incredibly real; how could she think that he was only a construction of her disorders?
His red-rimmed eyes glared at her as he started to rave.
"I've brought food. We can eat now," she said, cautious as if offering a bit of meat through the lion cage bars.
He closed his mouth, opened it again, then said, "I'll help you carry in the bags," and moved around to the boot.
Her nerves fluttered as they walked side by side into the cottage. "The Mannings up yet?" she asked, needing the distraction.
"Sleeping like horny babies," Gene said quickly, hoping that was the case. He hadn't given them a thought.
Once in the kitchen, and the sacks and boxes set on the table, they both stared at the hob with trepidation. Their mutual discomfort over the previous night dissipated with this new challenge.
"Do you know how to turn it on?" asked Alex.
"Just a switch," blustered Gene.
She moved forward cautiously. "I think it's gas. Where's the bottle?"
"Won't there still be a switch?"
"Did you even once turn on the stove in your house?" she snipped at him.
"Did you?" he fired back. "We had electric!"
"I did too," she bemoaned, wringing her hands.
He traced the gas hose going from the hob to the bottle under the worktop in a cabinet. "Right." He squatted down, peering at it, perplexed.
"Don't blow us up!"
"Very encouraging!" he growled, turning the knob on the bottle until he heard a hiss.
Returning to the hob, he tried the knobs on the front. He could smell gas, but nothing happened. He vaguely remembered his mam putting a match to the burners...Fumbling with his lighter, he flicked it on.
"Gene, don't hurt yourself!" Alex clutched at his arm.
He pushed her back. "Don't be a prat!" he muttered, and held the lighter by the burner. With a great whoosh, it ignited and they both leapt away.
"Christ on a bike," he panted, wiping his brow. "That seems to be it."
"Yes, now..." Alex turned to the supplies she'd bought. "I have eggs. Farm fresh."
He looked at the pile of brown, still warm, eggs in a cardboard basket. "They're not going to give birth when you crack them, are they?"
"Don't be silly," she said, although she wasn't all that confident. Taking down one of the black iron pans hung on the wall, she placed it on the burner which Gene had lit. Flames blazed up the side. That looked positive, she thought. Very much like cooking.
Fumbling through the boxes, she found the butter. Using a wooden spoon, she dropped a great glob in the pan, where it immediately hissed and melted, turning brown and beginning to smoke. She started to sweat. Everything was happening so quickly.
"One of those eggs," she barked.
For once not giving her guff, he quickly handed an egg off to her. She cracked it on the edge of the pan too sharply and yolk and white slid down the side, causing another flare. "Damn!"
Arm outstretched, she demanded two more. The first one, she got shell in the pan too, but there was no way she was reaching into the haze-filled pan to pick the fragments out. "Three should be enough, right?"
Gene was rooting in her packages. "Bacon!" he announced joyfully. Before she could protest, he dropped the fatty pieces into the pan. It hissed threateningly.
Alex stood back as far as she could and poked at the pan's contents with the spoon. As the fat in the bacon liquefied, it began to spit and snap, driving her either further back. The kitchen filled with smoke. Coughing, Gene reached for the window over the sink and pushed it open.
"It's not that bad!" Alex sputtered, even as she tried to move the pan off the burner. The handle was too hot, and she winced with pain.
"Silly cow!" Gene said when he noticed. Pulling his jacket sleeve down to cover his hand, he elbowed her aside and managed to move the pan to an unlit burner. "Bloody Nora," he gasped.
"What a mess," she said dejectedly, looking at the burnt, uncooked eggs and shrivelled, blackened bacon.
"How 'bout a nice boiled egg," he suggested and was rewarded with a bright smile. He found himself smiling back. Then he remember the weight of her breast in his palm and he had to turn away, flexing his fingers.
"You didn't get burnt, did you?" she asked, voice full of concern and standing much too close. She grasped his hand before he could stop her. Tracing her fingers lightly along the palm, she furrowed her brow. "No damage, from the look of it."
He stared down at her bowed head, his mind whirling once more. He could see his hand quivering in hers—ponce! He hated the way she made him feel but there was no way in hell he was going to step away.
"Toast!" he snapped. "Best make toast too!"
She was the one to move back. Tracing her lips nervously with her tongue, she nodded. Without the curls, her hair gathered in a messy bun at the base of her neck, all her freckles in sharp relief across her nose, and her bright eyes as clear as a dark-pebbled stream, she looked like some schoolgirl. He'd never had a kink for the underage skirts, but there was something in her vulnerability that reminded him of just such a girl; untouched and waiting to be awoken...Damn this woman. She just kept adding to his list.
Turning away, he rummaged through her stores until he discovered the loaf of bread wrapped in paper. Meanwhile, she'd found a saucepan and filled it with water and half a dozen eggs. After the intensity of the moment, it was a relief to go about mundane domestic chores. They managed to toast the bread with only the first batch burned, and the eggs' yolks were too runny for her taste, but at least it was food.
Gene wolfed through four of the eggs, smearing his toast around to sop up all the yolk on his plate. "Bit more practice and you'll pick this right up," he said.
She sipped her coffee and glared at him over her cup. "What if I don't want to be a better cook?"
"Your arse isn't going to be that pert forever, Bolly," he offered. "You're gonna need something to fall back on." He chuckled at his own humour.
She did not. "I don't need any man who sees me as unpaid domestic labour."
"But you will be paid. The bloke brings home his pay, the bird keeps the house," he explained, his mind back at the drudgery of his marriage. There'd been some comfort in that, no matter how dull.
"No thank you." She pushed back her plate. His gaze lighted on her remaining eggs. She gave a brief nod and he pulled it over to him.
"You need to eat more," he told her, even as he finished her breakfast.
"Not if I'm to keep my man satisfied," she snapped.
He peered up at her from under his blond forelock and she resisted the urge to smooth it back. "Got one?"
She just stared back. He had been thrusting against her last night, caressing her breast with a practised touch, his tongue mapping her mouth—and he was asking if she had another bloke? What did he think of her?
He went on before she could speak. "What about that Evan White? Haven't seen him around since the custody hearing."
She gulped the rest of her coffee. "He's quit his law practice to be there for Alex. He's put all the Prices' assets into a trust and he manages that. Does consulting work. So he won't be coming around with clients anymore."
"So you've been seeing him." Gene was moving his own coffee mug quarter turns on the table, seemingly fascinated by the task.
She stared at him again. She couldn't really tell him that this was prior knowledge. "I went to lunch with him once," she bluffed. "Heard the news. Haven't seen him since."
"Want to?" he asked gruffly.
"Not particularly," she said. "Can't really say I have much respect for men who fuck their friend's wife."
Gene shrugged, still not looking at her. "Seemed to be more your sort though."
"More my sort than what?"
His gaze shot up. Instead of replying, he snatched the keys from the tabletop. "My turn to go for a spin," he said abruptly. "You can wash up."
Grinding her teeth, Alex looked around the filthy kitchen. Smoke soiled every surface and the rancid odor of burned butter was in the air. But when she turned back to protest, he'd already beat his retreat.
In the village, Gene found a few small businesses were just opening. He shook his head and grumbled at how anyone would want to live in these little four square hamlets. He spotted the betting shop and pushed through the door. After placing his bets for the weekend's races and matches, he asked for the Gents. Inside the facilities, he didn't use the toilet, but stared at the condom machine on the wall, playing with the coins in his pocket. Finally losing his nerve, he banged out through the door, cursing his cowardice and lack of confidence under his breath.
Even as they'd eaten breakfast, he'd been studying her. Her disguise as some country toff was unsettling. She looked like a royal to him, or at least gentry, with her precise accent, clean, chiselled features, and the way her expensive yet frightfully simple clothing hung on her slim frame. End of, Gene, he'd brooded through his cup of coffee. Don't take her tongue down your throat as anything but desperate unhappiness.
He entered the tobacco shop at the end of the high street and asked for two packs of Winstons. As the old man behind the counter slowly shuffled to the proper rack, Gene's gaze travelled over the other displays, seeing if there was anything else he wanted. He tossed a roll of mint Mentos on the counter—he knew she liked those. A copy of the Daily Mail—let her get her Liberal bollocks fix for the day. And a packet of Garibaldi's for him. When the old man returned with the fags, Gene said casually, "A box of them Skyns too, Dad. Size large."
Ignoring the way the old man's thick eyebrows shot up, Gene pulled out his wad of notes and grumbled at the cost of everything these days as he paid. At the price of Johnnies, no wonder there were so many bastards in the world.
When he finally made his way back to the cottage, he found Alex pacing in the drive. Before he could even come to a full stop, she yanked open the passenger door. "The Mannings!" she said, jumping in. "They're on the move."
"Wot?" Gene asked, befuddled. A blue Escort went past the end of their drive.
"There!" urged Alex, pointing.
When he didn't immediately take off in pursuit, she commanded: "Mush!"
His own familiar refrain made Gene spin the car and bring it out onto the lane. Having gone around this morning, Alex took the role of navigator.
"Surely they're going to the village. Right here—Right!"
Cursing under his breath, Gene stopped, backed and managed to get the Quattro turned right at the fork in the lane. They were rewarded by the sight of the blue end of the Escort ahead.
"Damn, they aren't going to the village. And we're so conspicuous in this car—" She shot Gene an unfriendly look. "We should have checked out a Land Rover or something for this assignment."
"Over my dead body," Gene said, easing back so they weren't that close to the Escort. There was nowhere for the other car to go and no traffic, so he didn't worry about losing them.
"That's the way to the river," Alex noted when the Escort took a turn.
"How many miles did you put on her?" Gene said suspiciously, checking the odometer.
"Stay back!" Alex nagged, ignoring his complaints. "We can't be seen!"
"Why not? We're two holiday makers, just like they are."
She looked over at him. His suit looked even worse than earlier, now stained with smoke and grease, but it was still a suit. "You look like a pimp, out looking for one of his stray toms," she pointed out.
He only growled under his breath and pulled the Quattro off the track and behind some bushes. "We'll hoof it then. Out for a stroll like."
Rolling her eyes, she waited for him to pull on his overcoat from the backseat. Big and black, he looked even more threatening. She wrapped her borrowed mac more tightly around her. A light rain had started. Flipping up the hood, she cautiously headed down the track, following the fresh tyre tracks.
Faint grumbling at the rear told her the mud was getting on Gene's boots, but she couldn't give him much sympathy. If he didn't even prepare for an undercover assignment—
A sound made her stop. She held up her hand, muting Gene. They crept along until she pushed back against him. He breathed in her hair and one arm wrapped around her waist.
She lifted her mouth to his ear. "I don't believe it," she murmured.
"Wot?" he croaked.
She pulled down a branch to reveal Sharon on her knees in the wet grass, giving head to Anthony as he leant against a tree.
Rather than being turned on, Gene was overcome with a fit of the giggles. He could feel the outrage radiating from Alex and this struck him as hilarious. But Gene Hunt did not giggle. At least not in front of birds.
He took a deep breath. "Doesn't look as though they're going to have a meet up with their gang," he managed to say mildly.
She shot him a dirty look, but that meant that she was gazing up into his face and despite her fury, it felt all very rom-com even if Gene didn't resemble Hugh Grant in the least. His hair was wet, plastered to his head. Drops were running off his broad shoulders. One hung on the end of his chin and it was taking all her control not to snag it with her tongue. Against the green canopy, his eyes were blue as a tropical lagoon and she wanted to drown, feel the pull of him as she slipped under the surface.
Anthony rudely interrupted by suddenly bellowing, "Fook yeah, yah slut!"
Alex's face screwed up in disgust. Gene took another deep breath that came out as a choking cough. Better than laughing. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, he knew she would judge him, and not this twat with his trousers around his skinny ankles.
Anthony lit a cigarette while Sharon spit into a bush.
Alex made another face. "At least she's not giving him the full package," Gene murmured in her ear. The icy glare she gave him said that even that comment was not welcome.
Once he'd recovered, Manning moved in on his wife, pulling her skirt up roughly and pushing her against the tree. He fumbled at her top, exposing her breasts.
"Right. Good then," muttered Gene, now a bit turned on. Why the hell hadn't he at least gotten a hand under Alex's damn pyjamas? To touch her skin—he knew it would be as smooth as running his finger along that farm fresh butter. To tongue her nipple, see if he could make her whimper...reach down her knickers—
Time to stop right there. He suggested: "Might as well get back at the car, eh?"
She turned back, a stiff smile pasted on her face. "Yes, I think so."
It was an uncomfortable wait. Both were dripping wet and the interior soon fogged up. Gene wanted to turn on the heat, but Alex advised that the powerful motor would be heard by even those distracted lovers.
"Then let's go back now," groused Gene. "I'm soaked through."
Properly dressed, Alex wasn't as wet as he was, but she was cold. "They could still be meeting someone."
He took a cautious sip from his flask. Even though he was damp and stiff, waves of exhaustion washed over him. He couldn't drink too much or he'd drop right off. He offered the flask to Alex, but she shook her head. Twisting his mouth in contempt at her prudishness, he shoved the flask in his pocket and fished out his fags. He almost pulled out the condom box instead and closed his eyes briefly at the horror that would have been.
He muttered under his breath and smoked, keeping his window cracked despite her complaining, making her even more cold. Alex stared at his profile, watching the hypnotic motion of cigarette lifted to lips, the inhale, exhale, head tilted to window, the way his fingers played with the filter...How they'd played with her nipple through the fabric...Why hadn't he put his hands under her top?
Oh right. Because he'd just been humouring her. Keeping her from having a full breakdown. She sank low in her seat, arms tightly crossed and put herself into a proper deep, sulk.
He watched her from the corner of his eye. Somehow, he's fucked this up worse than a drunk rabbi with the DT's trying to nick a wee tadger. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how. Women. He inhaled deeply from his fag and was unreasonably grateful to see the Escort come by. Once the Mannings were past, he turned the Quattro carefully and followed to the cottages.
It appeared that their targets had merely wanted some al fresco shagging. They hurried inside out of the pouring rain. Gene and Alex were both happy to be back in shelter as well.
Alex checked through the front windows, shaking with cold. "Looks like they're building a fire and settling in for the afternoon."
"Sounds like a plan." Still in his dripping overcoat, Gene tossed wood in the hearth and shoved a newspaper between the logs.
It lit, but smoke soon filled the room. "Did you open the damper?" Alex nagged through chattering teeth.
He yanked the handle to open the damper. "Go get yourself a shower, woman. Before you die of it."
"What about you? You're wetter than I am."
He bit back the suggestion that they shower together. "Just don't take all the hot water."
She headed up the stairs and he paced before the fire, feeding it logs until it was a roaring inferno. Alex returned sooner than he expected, her hair wet, a loose jumper hanging from her bony shoulders, her pyjama pants low on her scrawny hips and her feet encased in thick socks. Without a word, he brushed past her and took the stairs two at a time.
Puzzled, Alex watched him go. After a shrug, she headed to the kitchen. She was suddenly starving and was sure Gene would be too when he returned. She'd have to see what she could manage.
Quite proud of her efforts, she'd just finished setting down plates of buns, cheese, pate and bottles of cider on a table before the fire when Gene returned, padding barefoot back into the front room.
She sank to the settee. He only wore a dark blue dress shirt, still creased from being folded his his travel bag...And...She tilted her head...black boxers. His long, long legs were surprisingly sleek. With his hair tufted up—she knew from her own experience that the shower head had been too low to fit his head under it—bright blue chest and skinny stems, he reminded her of some great heron.
She grinned, earning her a suspicious look and that pooch of his lips. "Wot?" he grumbled.
"Don't you have pyjamas?"
"First off, Bolly, I didn't know we were out here to have some slumber party. Second, no, I do not lounge around in silk pyjamas like a poofter."
She refrained from pointing out that no less than Hugh Hefner lounged around in silk pyjamas. "Right then. Lunch."
"Lunch?"
"A very nice Stilton, goose liver pate, and lovely crusty rolls."
He pulled up a chair to the table that she'd loaded with food. "And beer," he said lovingly.
"Cider, actually. Put up by the farmer himself."
He snorted. "Cider. Poof drink."
She took a sip. It seemed strong, but she wasn't going to say that after his snide comment. Although she tried to discuss the case with him, he only grunted in reply, working steadily through three rolls, a massive wedge of cheese and two jars of pate. Three large bottles of cider were quickly emptied while she downed one.
He slumped back in his chair. "That was good. Nice job, Bolly."
She couldn't seem to get angry. In fact, she was having difficulty staying upright. "Thank you," she said with great dignity even as she eased into a horizontal position.
"'elcome." He nodded with equal dignity.
She patted the cushion beside her. "Come 'ver 'ere," she slurred.
He peered suspiciously from under his long lashes. "Why?"
"'cause I'm having difficulty seeing you at this great distance," she said, pushing back her damp hair as though that would help her vision.
"I'm right 'ere." Gene gulped down the dregs of his bottle.
She squinted at her bottle. "I don't think this is cider."
"I know cider—" He stopped and wiped a hand over his forehead. "Did that farmer call it scrumpy by any chance?"
She broke into a wide smile. "Why yes, he did."
Gene rose, wavered, then spun on those long legs as if a giraffe losing its balance.
"Timber!" she called out as he crashed down beside her.
"Damn," he mumbled, face in a throw pillow.
"Careful," she warned, patting his back. Her hand lingered, beginning to smooth wide circles. His shoulders were so broad...
Muffled by the pillow, he told her, "Scrumpy is no cider. It'll knock you on your arse like a demented donkey."
"Which it appears to have done," she said, delighted. Suddenly exhausted—after all, she'd had hardly any sleep the previous night—she draped herself across his back. He was warm too. Why had she known that he'd be so toasty?
"I am not drunk," he protested and managed to twist around under her. Somehow she was now nestled in the cradle of those long legs, her chin propped on his breastbone, staring up into his mesmerising gaze. His blazing blue focus was sharp but his eyelids half-closed.
She gave a deep sigh, then a delicate burp.
"'cuse me," she muttered, covering her mouth belatedly. Her arm was so heavy...Her hand flopped down on his chest, finding the bare skin at his throat.
He wound a strand of her damp hair around one of his fingers. "'our curls is gone," he muttered.
She nodded, thumping her chin on his chest. Again, she thought how warm he was, and soft on the right places for her to take a little nap...She snuggled down deeper...
But hard in other places...
Her gaze snapped up. His dropped, and of all things, he looked ashamed. He tried to wiggle away.
"Don't you like me, Gene?" she asked, tears stuck in her throat. "I like you." Fatally, she remembered that she was a pathetic drunk.
"Damn it, Bolly."
"Fine," she hissed, actually spitting as she tried to sound venomous and only succeeded in drooling. She started to struggle herself, attempting to free herself from his long limbs.
"Bolly," he groaned, his arms wrapping around her. He rolled, trapping her against the back of the settee.
She looked up, panting, her head light from the cider and claustrophobia. His leg draped over her hip, holding her in place.
"I like you," he said. Simple words, so why were they so filled with pain?
"Good," she said, right before grabbing a handful of his mane to keep him from evading her kiss.
Neither of them seemed to be able to work their lips very well. Wet, sloppy caresses, half on their cheeks, their noses, chins, tongues licking as if trying to get the last drop of ice cream. She snorted a giggle, hiccuped and burped once more.
"I am so sorry!"
"Please God, Bolly, do shut up," he ground out, fumbling around under her jumper. Where the hell was a tit? He didn't even need both! Just one!
She had found his arse though. His boxers were being shoved down, and her very strong grip had a hold. She seemed to have the idea of bodily shoving him inside her, layers of clothing be damned. He would normally heartily approve of her enthusiasm, but his dick was trapped between them, and her belly, tight as a drum skin, was flattening it out like a road-crossing badger under a lorry's tyres.
She gave another hiccup, said, "Well shit," and then suddenly went slack.
"Bolly?"
He tilted his head to get a look at her face. Eyes closed; out cold.
"Well shit," he echoed. Unconscious, she was like a long, soft pillow, luring him to join her in slumber. His eyelids slid closed, just for a minute...He'd get back to this after a quick kip...
"Gene!"
He burrowed into the pillow, wanting just five more minutes... His arse was cold though. He fumbled behind his back. His boxers were down. That was the problem. But when he tried to pull them up, she slapped his bare bum cheek.
"Gene, wake up!"
He cracked one eye, very slowly and painfully. Alex loomed over him, wavering in and out of focus.
"They're gone!"
"O?" he rasped, clutching his head.
"The Mannings!" Alex was rushing around the room, snatching her mac off the chair where it had been drying. "They're probably meeting up with their gang! We have to go find them!"
He was upright. This was better. He cradled his throbbing head in his hands. "No. We don't," he said thickly.
"What do you mean? We've blown this case, Gene." She stood before him, mac partway on, her brow furrowed in worry.
"There is no case."
"What do you mean?"
He ran his hands through his hair, as though he could get his jumbled thoughts back together if only his hair was combed. "There's no case," he repeated. "No blaggers."
"What?" she breathed. She glanced to the window. "You mean...We've been watching some perfectly ordinary couple shagging for two days?"
He couldn't answer. He only nodded.
"But why...Why would you do that?" she said, appalled.
He finally raised his gaze to her. There was confusion in hers, but lurking behind anger was ready and waiting to rain down upon his head. The words he said next would be the single most important ones that he ever said to Alex Drake.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it. Opened it again. With effort, he stood, wavering for his balance as his head swam.
"Well," she said, demanding. "What is it?"
He had to say it. Get it over with. Have her cut his bollocks off and be done with it.
"Why did you bring me out here, make up some lie?" she demanded to know.
His hands were on her face before she could speak again, his mouth down on hers. His answer couldn't be put into words.
End ~ Part 2
E/N: Why yes, I am a cruel bitch, why do you ask?