Rating: T, lewd undertones
Disclaimer: Not mine, you know whose.
Spoilers: Up to 2.04
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Summary: Post-ep for 2.04, picks up immediately after. Gene is intrigued by Alex's reaction to their rumoured affair.
A/N: Yes, I'm still on this ep cos I love it.

That was interestin'.

She avoided the question.

More than that. She'd stumbled over her words, done funny things with her mouth. She'd toyed with her wineglass and looked anywhere but at him. And, if he was not mistaken, those prettily rouged cheeks went a little red.

Interesting. Different. For Alex Drake.

Alex Drake did not avoid questions. She answered 'em in a clear, confident voice and way more detail than necessary. Her words didn't falter and her sentences didn't trail off into vague nonsense sounds. She was no blushing schoolgirl, no shrinking violet, not even when it came to matters of a carnal nature. In fact, the woman's tendency to shamelessly pronounce some of the lewdest words known to man in that blue-blood accent of hers never ceased to make his incorrigible red blood speed south.

And that's what he'd been trying to get her to do, voice, admit. Before that blasted Luigi stuck his big Italian nose in, he'd been trying to make her put herself, himself and carnal acts in a sentence together. Just like Jackie had. Just like everyone on his team had. Just like Luigi had, now he came to it, on a number of separate occasions. He wanted to know if she knew what everyone was sayin' about them. Wanted to know if she cared.

The Alex Drake of old would've laughed at even the suggestion. Loudly – not chuffed in muddled embarrassment like she had earlier when Jackie interrupted one of their clandestine spying sessions. The Alex Drake he used to know had absolutely no qualms about getting in his face, pinning his eyes with her unflinching green gaze and informing him in no uncertain terms of just how little chance with her he had. Even that gave him the horn. In a mighty way. He had to admire a woman who was so damn certain she could do better than his pasty, old arse.

That was probably the basis of the rumours, the source of the sceptical gossip. Because everyone knew Alex Drake could do better than him. He was not of her class and never would be. Though it did his ego no end of good to think folks believed he might stand a chance. His chest might have puffed a little when he first heard the whispers that now stalked them down every hallway and swelled behind every closed door. Other parts of him might also have expanded, just a little, at the notion. And since imaginary sex was the only sex he was currently getting, he figured he might as well enjoy any benefits that flowed his way. Even if something sadistic in him longed for her to once more put him in his place and out of his misery. To assure him that the very thought was ridiculous, preposterous, impossible. To not even think it, say it, hope for it.

Of course, she hadn't done that, 'ad she? Bloody woman had to keep him hanging with her half-complete sentences and put-on ignorance. If Alex Drake was ignorant, then he was the ruddy Dalai Lama. She knew everything that went on in that squadroom, just as well as he did, if not better. She had to know what was being said about them, had to have the same images in her head as he did. Knowing her mind, the images conjured were even more depraved and detailed. And he'd already spent a good deal of time cultivating his collection of Alex Drake images and fantasies and never-to-be-fulfilled desires. It's what made his evenings worthwhile.

It's also what had him running off to Manchester eight months prior. A futile attempt to reconnect with his old, rollicking self and, at least briefly, forget about the big-mouthed, long-legged, emerald-eyed, curly-haired DI he'd left behind in London. It was the hair that did it, he reckons. Jackie hadn't had that mass of golden curls last time he'd seen her. And while he wasn't so far gone that he could mistake one woman for another, he was certain it was that hair that made him reach for her in the dark, pull her wiggling arse against his poor, neglected erection and mumble something amorous to his "Bolly-baby" in her ear. Mercifully, he must have been drunk enough that the nickname was unintelligible to the interfering little snoop. Otherwise, he'd never 'ave heard the end of it. And neither would the object of his desires, once Jackie connected the dots.

As it was, Jackie just cackled loudly and rejected his sloppy advances, much the way he imagined his Bolly would. It's probably what'd made him like her in the first place. He'd always had an irrational attraction to women with mouths on 'em, brains on 'em, wills on 'em. Women to whom he could lose – foolishly and spectacularly. Women with whom he'd never bloody win, never even stand a chance. It was a character failing, deeply ingrained. One that made his life exhilarating. And endlessly exasperating. Returning to London feeling as morose and frustrated as when he'd left, he found the voluminous curls that had been a focal point of so many fantasies gone. In his absence, Alex had replaced her shoulder-baring t-shirt with a buttoned-up blouse. And her hair had been fashioned into a short, flicky deal that he had to admit was more in keeping with her role as a policewoman. The more professional look did nothing to discourage his routine, carnal imaginings. Quite the opposite. Once de-curled, he simply found other delectable aspects of Alex Drake to focus on during the long and lonely night-time hours.

Of course, his evenings had been a little different of late. He hadn't ritualistically poured himself into his Quattro after having a skinful at Luigi's. He hadn't immediately reached for a cold beer when walking through the door of his cold flat. He hadn't wanked himself to sleep thinking about a bird he could never have. (Never, ever, ever, her apparition would whisper in his ear, right before he came in his own hand.) None of that had happened in a while because he'd been spending his evenings in the company of the bird in question. Plotting. Whispering. Bouncing his ideas of her ideas as they leaned over a flipchart on his desk. Or as they scoured records at Luigi's after everyone else had gone home. Or as they slumped on her couch and stared at the ceiling, mulling over the various possibilities that fit their meagre facts.

He'd never enjoyed work so much. Absorbed in the pursuit, Alex often stood close to him, her shoulder brushing his, her perfume wafting up into his nostrils. Her arms tangled with his as they sorted through old police files. He even made her a cuppa once. Brought it to her when she fell asleep in his chair. He nudged her awake, reminded her that he was not accustomed to playing mother. Alex had smiled at him. An honest-to-God smile. Soft and sleepy and unguarded. The sort he thought he'd never earn from her, not in a million and one years. He got another one, a more strained one, when she tasted the five sugars he'd stirred vigorously into her brew.

If he thought any more than that was on his way though, then he was being a bit bloody hopeful. He knew it as fact. Just as he knew that he wouldn't drop the topic when she returned to her seat. She'd expect him to. But he wanted to hear her say it, admit it, deny it. He wanted Alex Drake to look him in the eye and tell him never. Never, ever…ever.

He heard her hang up the phone, felt her approach more than saw it. He liked to withdraw his gaze from her sometimes – her face, her body, her every bloody move. Made him feel like he retained some sense of power. A false sense, and one that never lasted long. Gaze steadfastly fixed to his drink, he grunted his next question, resuming their conversation before she even had the chance to re-take her seat.

"Thought we were havin' it off. Didn't she?"

Alex stalled, one hand on the back of her chair. "I'm sorry?"

"Jackie." He dragged on his cigarillo, flicked the ash into the tray and refused to look up. "She thought the two of us were diddlin' each other on company time."

"She, ah…" her voice was breathy and vague as she pulled out her chair and sat, "she might've said…something..."

"Mm." Gene swirled his drink in his glass then lifted his head, scrutinising her through the smoke. "Rumours are all over the station."

She tucked her chair under her and blinked a few times at the tablecloth, either deciding how to answer him or still processing the phone call that took her away from him. "Never known you to listen to rumours," she replied eventually, glancing at him but not holding his gaze.

"Rumours about me aren't normally so complimentary," he told her, adding a little verve to his voice. "Does my reputation no 'arm if people think I'm knockin' boots with a sexy subordinate on the regular." He sipped his drink, ran his eyes over her. "Not sure it does anythin' for your rep though."

Alex shrugged and made a careless little sound in the back of her throat. "Aren't I already thought of around the place as a fruitcake with loose morals?"

He bobbed his head. "By almost everyone."

"Well then," she murmured, lifting her glass to her lips.

He watched her sip, cleared his throat then pushed his luck. "Dunno that adding whispers 'bout you shaggin' your crusty old boss—"

"Crusty," Alex interrupted, tone sharp and eyes flicking up to his, "may be how Jackie views you—"

"I believe," he said, interrupting her right back, "last man on the planet she'd ever sleep with was the exact phraseology."

"Well…" her eyes dropped as she withdrew in her seat, taking her wine with her, "you're not the last man on the planet I'd sleep with."

He paused, sniffed. "No?"

"No." She cradled her glass against her chest, turning in her seat to cross one leg over the other. "Ray," she murmured pensively, "would be the last. The absolute last. You'd be…" she cast him a fleeting glance, "much further up the list."

His elbows shifted closer on the table. "'Ow much further?"

She frowned and sipped her wine. "I'm not going to ascribe you a number."

"Why not?"

"Because I wouldn't want your head getting any bigger than it already is. That's why not."

He studied the tablecloth a moment, fingered the saltshaker. "Not so ridiculous then," he murmured after a moment, voice deliberately light.

Her head tilted. "What isn't?"

"You an' me." He put his cigarillo to his lips, catching and holding her gaze as he smokily pointed out, "You said the idea was ridiculous. Twice."

Her lips parted but her gaze didn't drop. She sucked in a tiny breath, the corners of her mouth turning upwards in the smallest of smiles. "No," she answered softly, "No, it's…not so ridiculous."

Gene pursed his lips and let himself imagine it. Let himself imagine actually – not hypothetically, but actually – taking Alex upstairs, taking her to bed. Touching her, undressing her, doing various other things…with her. He drained his drink and opened his mouth on the one question he never thought he'd ask her again— only to have Luigi waltz in with a polite bow and two more of their usuals. Gene glowered at him. They really had trained the man too well. Except, of course, to impress upon him the very real importance of flamin' timin'. The brief interjection was enough to break any mood that might have been building, to allow Alex to reinstall some distance and change the subject.

She tipped the fresh wine into her glass and angled it towards his. "To ruined reputations. Yours, mine and Macs."

"Mine's in fine form," he grunted, clinking his glass against hers, "But I'll drink to yours, Bolly. The fruitcake with the loose morals."

"And I'll drink to yours," she added, green eyes glinting at him over the rim of her glass, "The beefcake with the, ah, sexy scowl."

He scowled at her: "Shut up and drink—" then straightened in his seat and yelled after the old man: "Oi, Luigi! Who do I 'ave to shag round here to get a couple of ruddy menus?"

Luigi just turned and gestured at Alex who told him with wide eyes and stammering syllables:

"I brought them back with me. Actually."

She retrieved two thick burgundy folders from an adjacent chair, though why she'd put them down there he didn't know. But then why Alex Drake did anything was a source of continuing confusion to him. Including now, it seemed, considering him a somewhat acceptable sexual partner. More acceptable than some at least. Which did not help him at all.

After all, he'd been hoping – hadn't he? – to get them back onto familiar territory. He tried it on, made a suggestive remark, crossed the implicit line between professional and carnal. She laughed, rejected him, told him never ever. They drank, joked, flirted, then got back to work. That was the way it usually went. That was the natural order of things. Until she stopped playing her part. Just like a woman to change the rules mid-game. Not that he had it in him to feel irritated. No matter how lost he might feel in whatever this new game was they were now playing. If it was still a game.

Gene took the menu she offered. "Right..."

Alex held his gaze, nodded once. "My shout."

Normally, he'd baulk at the idea of a bird buyin' his meal. But apparently the rules had changed. Something had changed while he wasn't looking. Something was definitely different. And until he knew exactly what it was, he figured the best course of action was just to not let on. So Gene ducked his head, opened the menu he knew by heart and muttered, "Right then, Bols. Let's eat."

END.