It had been a pointless pig of a day, full of backtracking paperwork and the completion of a case that should have been a satisfying tribute to his instincts, but instead just left him uncharacteristically sheepish. The whole thing has started so well; straight-forward sympathetic victim, good chance of public recognition and assistance, every reason, or so he thought, to give that bloody woman a chance to shine.

He'd gone along with the reconstruction, and thought the idea of Hollis retracing his steps might be useful (which, as it turned out, it was, just not in the way he had anticipated). Somewhere in all that, he had managed to ask her out. Not quite as confidently as he'd wanted, but still. She had agreed, after all.

Oh, but then. He was right to trust his instincts, he damn well knew it. He clung to the thought defiantly for a few seconds, firing up the Quattro's ignition. Foot to the floor, he set his jaw but he couldn't hold it. No real reason to, no one else to convince. He had ballsed it up and all the instincts in the world couldn't soften the blow.

He'd let her down, stuffed it up when she'd needed him to respect her. He knew it when she'd called off Caroline bleedin' attack dog Price. That bitch scented blood and wanted sauce on her pound of flesh. But Alex, she took no relish from his humiliation. She had done the right thing. He knew it like he knew when he'd been winded by a punch.

Those last moments of madness yesterday, watching Chris sob like a kid, his pretty girlfriend lying there like she was already on the mortuary slab, the blind impotence of letting him and Ray vent their rage on that pathetic twat Hollis, what was it bloody for? He drove on autopilot to Luigi's. She would be upstairs again, perhaps with that Evan bloke. The thought cut into him like a splinter under a thumbnail.

She had spent the least amount of time possible in the office today, and the lack of eye-contact told him all he needed to know from her. So he would go in, drink until his liver fainted and forget he gave a damn about what she thought of him.

And there she was, a brace of empty wineglasses already in front of her. She was slouched over, one hand propping up her head, the other punctuating the conversation she seemed to be having with herself..

"So, what is Gene Hunt, and what is he doing here?" She said, without turning.

The sound of his name from her lips actually made him feel… hopeful. He paused for a split second, but decided the lack of scornful tone in her voice was excuse enough to jump in with both feet.

"A magnificent example of forceful masculinity, here to see if it's possible to drink you under the table, Bolly." It was a peace offering, a plea wrapped in barbed wire that he was almost certain she would treat with contempt. Maybe he wanted her to. He knew he needed to take the kicking that was coming to him. What was killing him was that she didn't dish it out, she just looked up at him, startled.

He called to Luigi for whatever the lady was having, and inside he was yelling at her to get on with it, but she said nothing.

"What's the matter with you, woman, bit your own tongue off?" It was another goad, trying to provoke a reaction, but she just looked down into her wine. Taking a breath, he hung his head, rubbed his finger and thumb briefly in the centre of his forehead, the other hand pushing down on the bar.

"Alex, I'm sorry." He said into his chest, his eyes closed. He sensed movement, and for one awful, lonely moment, he thought she was off the barstool and leaving. He opened his eyes to see she had turned fully to face him.