Something is Rotten in the State of Denmark

I have a 'notes' in my iPhone that is called 'mind worms' and it has all my A2A story ideas and musings in it. Some of them are long epics, all planned out (ready to write… someday) but this mind worm just says 'Galex does Shakespeare.' I have never seen a Shakespeare play and don't really have any interest in it, but I suspect Alex Drake might. So- here we go: Galex does Shakespeare. Enjoy

Tonight she was wearing a cream satin blouse, he noted in his head dumbly. Gene Hunt turned his head and saw his gorgeous, mouthy, one hundred percent bloody shaggable DI more than three quarters a way through a bottle of white with Shaz Granger. They were both giggling hysterically and tipsily over something Ray had said, something about something that had happened on something called Dynasty. Who the hell was Fallon Carrington anyway? He didn't care. Every single second, every single thought was of her… Al-ex. Her name spun round and round his head like a washing machine.

It was getting worse; he swore it was getting worse. Certainly, since they'd been keeping this massive secret. The day the Price's car exploded, and Alex had howled like a luna wolf in his arms, so shaken she couldn't stand… he'd stayed with her. All night, so afraid to leave her in case she did something silly. When he'd put her to bed, a large glass of water beside the lamp casting moody shadows over her bedroom, so afraid she'd dehydrate from all the countless tears she'd shed it was the first time she'd spoken for hours, "Stay," she'd choked out through her tears, followed by the word that broke his heart, "Please." So, he had, all night and the sun was rising. And in romance novels and sappy shit, the ones Shaz read, and he sometimes swiped on a particularly slow day, wasn't this when there was supposed to be some big revelation, some undying declaration of love? But Gene Hunt and Alex Drake was no fairy tale, that much was clear. So, when she awoke the next day, and, without saying a word, rolled on top of him with red-rimmed and shining eyes… he was no saint. He'd wanted her the second he'd laid eyes on her, and they were both sober, consenting adults. And six months later- here they were. Neither of them were going to put labels on it, no definitions, there were no dates, no romance, no flowers and hearts. Gene suspected Alex heart had been smashed to smithereens by her loser ex and she was cynical like that. But he cared for her- deeply. He'd do anything to keep her safe. How did you, how did he, define that?

But did he want… more? Could he see a future, a real relationship with his mad-as-a-box-of-frogs DI? Did he care what people thought, what Ray and Chris and Viv thought? Maybe it was time to explore the possibilities. Did she want something more? Maybe it was time to test the boundaries…

It was late. The rest of CID had mercifully called it a night. Terry and Poirot were leaving too, Gene bade them goodnight and suddenly they were all alone. Alex was leaning against a pillar, soft, defences down and pleasantly tipsy. Pliable, more manageable somehow. Swallowing the last of his Carlsberg, he went over to her. Almost nervous, almost unsure. What if she said no? What if this was just sex to her? Was it? She was always twittering on about going home, could this just be some casual fling and one day he'd wake up and find her gone, back to Molly. He poured the last of the wine from the bottle into her glass and raised it to his lips, swallowing a big gulp. Yuck. Tasted suspiciously like Parma Violets and he grimaced.

"Wanna surprise you, Alex." He used her real first name when they were alone together like this, all his bravado gone.

She didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow. It was so fucking sexy he thought he might implode.

"Tomorrow night… wanna… wanna take you somewhere nice."

"Somewhere nice where?" Her voice was all husky, he suspected she'd stolen one of Ray's cigarettes again and smoked just one, which she did, just sporadically, when she was feeling particularly chipper. It turned her voice to liquid smoke.

"That," another swallow of the too-sweet-for-words wine, another grimace, "Would spoil the surprise. Tomorrow night."

She considered the possibility, maybe a little bit terrified. "A date?"

"A date, Alex."

She nodded, just once, taking the glass back and swallowing the last of the wine before he could. A power play of sorts. She whispered in his ear, "Coming to bed?"

And it took all of his resolve to say no. "Time to start doing this right. I'll pick you up at 7:30." He looked into her eyes and thought she understood anyway.

"What shall I wear?"

He stood and the bravado was back. "You know me, Bolly. Fur coat, no knickers."

*********************************************************************************

She wore the fur coat as promised. The first one she'd waltzed into his life in 10 months ago. It was over a turquoise satin number, a diamante collar around her neck.

"Bloody hell, Bols," he said when she opened the door, by way of greeting. "You look…"

She smiled, unsure of what to say. "What's the surprise then?"

From his jacket pocket he produced two tickets. "Hamnet."

She rolled her eyes. "It's Hamlet." A pause. "Wait, you're taking me to Shakespeare?" And then he found himself with his arms full of her, holding her tight, her squeezing him for dear life. "Oh, Gene, it's so perfect!"

"Only the best for my girl."

The look in her eyes, the way she nervously bit her lip made him think he'd said too much, the wrong thing. But it was true. He did think of her as his girl. They were a team, unbreakable. Two peas in a pod. Both as fucked up as each other.

The drive into Central London was surprisingly quiet, especially for Alex. Christ he was nervous. What on earth was he doing? He had no idea what to expect. Shakespeare was all men in tights, wasn't it? Stupid raging poofters, he couldn't imagine he'd enjoy it for a second. But she would- and that was all that mattered, wasn't it? It wasn't enough that she was safe, he wanted her to feel happy. Like she had a home, a future here.

He parked outside the theatre with the flash of his warrant card. They walked inside side by side, oddly nervous, unsure, not touching. The seats were good, decent view, but it was the man who sat beside Alex and was blatantly flirting with her that nearly sent him over the edge. A banker named James apparently. They talked through the ins and outs of a character named Gertrude and how Polonius' lines were apparently 'so iconic.' Jesus Christ on a bike, why didn't she just marry him? As the play started and Gene found himself unable to follow a word of Shakespearean English, he found himself getting hotter and hotter and redder and redder in the face. The seats were the most uncomfortable he'd probably ever sat on, and he felt embarrassed, out of his depth. God, this was Alex's world: all velvet seats and Yorick and Horatio. He didn't belong in it, that much was clear. Gene thanked God when the interval started. "Going for a smoke," he told her, rushing outside, leaving her with James, probably to arrange a nice dinner date or bit of Troilus and Cressida, whatever that was. It sounded vaguely dirty to Gene. Leaning against the wall of the theatre, he took out a cigarette, lit it and let the familiar rush of nicotine curl its way around his lungs. This had been a giant mistake, what was he thinking? Thinking he could just insert his way into Alex's life, and it would work, that she would just accept him. She blew hot and cold, one minute jumping around with Shaz to Cyndi Lauper after a third bottle of Riesling between them, then catatonically sobbing she wanted to go home, wherever that was. She was an enigma, a riddle. And suddenly she was by his side.

"Needed some air," she explained. She looked all flushed in the way she did, the heat rising, eyes all sparkly.

"I'm surprised you could tear yourself away from lover-boy, Yorick or whatever he's called," Gene bit back.

"What? You jealous?" She came to stand directly in front of him and he blew a puff of smoke past her ear.

"Yeah, a bit," he confessed. He stubbed the rest of the half-smoked cigarette out under his shoe, self-conscious. "A lot actually."

"Oh, Gene." She wrapped her arms around his neck, cupping her hands at the back of his skull. "It's you. Don't you get it? It's always been you." She pulled him closer, so her lips were directly by his right ear. "It's you I love."

"What?" He jerked back like he'd touched an electrical wire. "What did you say?"

She smiled, a dopey sort of half-smile he'd never seen before. She suddenly looked 10 years younger. Looking deep into his eyes, she told him, "I love you."

He didn't know how to respond. His heart stilled. This must be some kind of joke. Alex Drake, Cambridge educated, first in her class at Hendon, was telling him, Gene Hunt, she loved him. She looked very unsure, like she'd said the wrong thing. "Sorry I…"

"No." He cupped her face tenderly in his hands. "Alex… I love you too."

She smiled then. Something big and joyous that lit up her whole face and reached into the depths of her amber eyes. "Well, now we've got this settled… shall we get out of here?"

"What about the play? Aren't you enjoying it?"

"Well, yes-"

"So we're going to watch the second act." He took her hand and led her back inside. They were just in time; the curtain was rising. Gene looked across at Alex, James was trying to hand her his business card and to his smug satisfaction he heard her say,

"Actually, I'm here with my boyfriend."

If that's how she wanted to define it that was just fine with him.