"Any pain?" Alex asks gently, pressing down on Gene's bandaged stomach. He hisses.
"Careful!"
"Sorry."
Gene struggles upright in the uncomfortable hospital trolley, stripped down to his bloodstained vest and trousers, shivering slightly in the cool A&E department; Alex leans over, making to help him, retracting her arms hurriedly as Gene scowls at her.
"Leave me alone, DI Drake."
"If you so insist," Alex snaps back, jerking up from her chair and storming out in a flurry of indignant denim and batwing top. Gene rolls his eyes at her retreating arse, knowing that she's fully aware he's staring at it.
Leaning back onto the pillows heaped behind him, Gene sighs heavily, one hand rubbing the bandages covering his tummy absent-mindedly, safe in the knowledge that Alex will go and get some tea and come straight back. Fighting is a huge part of their relationship, always has been; they fight and make up so easily it barely affects them at all anymore.
But Keats wants ter change that.
Gene groans quietly, letting his head fall back. The blood loss has left him feeling woozy; he quietly wonders whether Alex would let him sleep or firmly tell him to wake up, closing his eyes and deciding he doesn't care. He's tired and he'll sleep.
Fell over onter a whiteboard leg.
His excuse echoes in his head, twinned with Keats' mocking laughter, as Gene slips into sleep.
The picture glares at him every time he closes his eyes.
Work today has been slow. Alex has been in the Super's office most of today in a meeting about team efficiency he was let off due to his injuries, so he has nothing nice to stare at and nobody to piss about in the kitchenette with. The team has been grilling him about how he got the cuts on his stomach; using their highly-tuned powers of deduction, they have noted that the whiteboard has no blood on it, but he sticks by his excuse, saying the cleaners must have dealt with it. Even dispatching Ray to Keats' office to set up a little prank for him hasn't alleviated much of the boredom. He's spent most of the day lounging in his chair, occasionally dozing, waiting for the clock hands to chug round to five o'clock so he can go to Luigi's and get too drunk to remember his DI's face above the broken, mangled body.
This is what Keats bloody wanted. Ter drive me mad. 'E's bloody succeeded.
Gene sighs, throwing a dart half-heartedly at the dartboard and managing half a smile as it hits the bullseye, freshly decorated with the worst picture of Keats he could find; Ray had managed, at the Christmas party last year, to snap a shot that made it look like the minion was fingering himself. Naturally, the nuts had taken pride of place as the bullseye.
As if on cue, the photographer himself suddenly pokes his head round the door, something shiny clutched in one hand as Gene looks round, raising his eyebrows.
"Guv? Blag at a jeweller's, St. Botolph Street."
Finally, something to distract him. Gene all but leaps from his chair, only to fall back with a gasp of pain as his stomach protests at the sudden movement, a burning sensation attacking his gut. Ray makes to help him, but the DCI's glare is more than enough to put him off.
"You touch me, DI Carling, an' yer knackers will soon be makin' their way through a rabid dog's digestive system, do I make myself clear? Where're my bloody Quattro keys?"
Ray holds up the keys, his eyebrows rising as Gene lunges for them and misses by a country mile, hissing with agony.
"You should stay 'ere, Guv. Chris an' I'll 'andle this one."
"DI Carling. As yer superior officer, I order that you 'and over my car keys an' get out of my bloody way!"
"DI Drake said-"
"DI Drake says a lot of thin's, an' ninety percent of it is bloody bullshit. Give."
Ray silently hands the keys over.
"Ta very muchly."
All he and Chris can do is hurry after their DCI as he straightens, ignoring the pain blazing in his stomach, and storms out of CID.
Funnily enough, things aren't going well for Keats either.
The Super, using the incredible detecting skills that have made him a Super (besides being a fan of cricket and a family tree traceable to the 15th century), had worked out that the 'course' Keats sent Gene and Alex on was a fake, and had hauled Keats over the coals for it, telling him never to pull a stunt like that again or he'd be out of a job and in jail for wasting police time. Specifically his. Then he'd come back to his office to find that, while he was out, someone- he suspects DI Carling, with a certain DCI as the mastermind- had readjusted his chair so that when he sat on it it catapulted him forwards onto his desk, thoughtfully sabotaged with a custard pie covered in tissue paper to disguise it.
The minion sighs, scratching his head and fishing a little custard from behind his ear, cursing roundly at whoever had dreamt up that little plan. A car roars somewhere in the distance and he smirks, recognising the distinctive tones of the Quattro. Hunt off to that jeweller's I organised? Have to keep him on his toes while he's injured, help his recovery.
Yes, it is a low blow, organising it himself, he reflects with a small smile, but on the other hand, his boss would heartily approve of everything he's doing, and that's what matters. That, and the smug pride he gets from having one over on Gene Hunt.
He picks up a dart and chucks it towards his dartboard, the bullseye nicely decorated with a mug-shot of Gene. He misses completely, creating another small hole in the wall and sighing. He's never actually managed to hit the picture. In fact, he wonders whether he's actually ever managed to hit the dartboard. He wasn't put in his job for his aim. Damn Hunt and his accuracy. Unless it's to do with DI Drake, of course. He sniggers to himself.
His eye catches the slip of paper tucked beneath the files on his desk, bearing the details of the blag. Hopefully that useless tosser Dyke will remember what he's meant to do. If not, Keats has a lovely little spot at the centre of a fire in Hell for him... reserved.
He grins to himself, taking a swig of coffee from his favourite mug.
A couple of WPCs walking along outside turn to stare at the door of the office as the sound of spluttering and choking comes from inside, mingling nicely with yelled curses and obscenities, mostly directed at DCI Hunt.
Bloody Fairy Liquid again! Devil damn you, Hunt... no, wait, he already has.
Gene wonders absent-mindedly whether any of the blaggers will have dark hair so he can pretend they're Keats as the Quattro skids round a corner towards the jeweller's, cutting up several people at a roundabout and narrowly missing a group of elderly women on a zebra crossing. One of the old biddies gives him a V-sign; he raises his eyebrows, squealing round a corner and stamping on the brakes.
"Guv, they're armed," Ray reminds him from the back seat, him and Chris scrambling to get out as Gene opens his door and almost moans with the sudden pain from his midriff. Think I've snapped the stitches. Might actually 'ave snapped more than one. Just please, please don't bleed all over my suit.
"Guv? You OK? Yer as white as a ginger bird's arse."
"Thank you fer that wisdom, Chris. I recommend findin' a better line, I seem ter remember yer usin' that one in nineteen-bloody-seventy-three," Gene mutters, manfully pushing himself out of the car and biting his cheek to stop himself making any noise. "Right. Where'll they come out from?"
"Back, Guv, there's people everywhere on the street itself," Ray says, taking the safety catch off on his gun and belatedly realising that Gene is bent double behind him, using the Quattro for support. "Guv, yer shouldn' be 'ere, yer no use ter us actin' like a bloody casualty."
Gene simply fires into the air. Both Chris and Ray jump back like startled children.
"See? I can fire a gun wi' the best of 'em. Now get yer sorry arses ter that door an' flank me!"
"Where's DCI Hunt gone?"
"Out, there was a blag at a jeweller's. Didn' look so good, ma'am, don't reckon 'e should've gone," Shaz says before anyone else can get anything in, her eyebrows almost knitted together in concern. Alex sighs.
"I should have expected no less from DCI Hunt. The Super put him on bloody desk work! Does he never listen?"
The chorus of "no" from everyone else in CID is to be expected. Alex rolls her eyes.
"I didn't think so. Where did they go? I should-"
The radio abruptly cuts everyone off, crackling into life on Shaz's desk, its tinny, distinctly Ray-like tones echoing around the suddenly silent office.
"Big Bear ter CID. Big Bear ter CID. We 'ave a man down. The Guv, 'e's down."
Alex simply grabs the keys to one of the pool cars and runs out of CID.
"Told yer yer shouldn' 'ave tried ter punch that last one, Guv, Ray 'ad an 'old on 'im anyway," Chris says quietly, standing awkwardly next to the Quattro as Ray retrieves his radio and Gene holds a wad of towels to his bleeding stomach, shirt half-open and chest exposed in the grim, strained London light. A police van is sitting nearby, loading the blaggers in; most are sporting some kind of injury from DCI Hunt, some moaning about police brutality as the doors close.
"When I need your opinion, DC Skelton, I will ask fer it," Gene mutters darkly, lifting the towel a tiny amount to see snapped stitches and a lot of blood staining his pale skin. Bolly's goin' ter kill me. Bloody Keats... I will get 'im back fer this. I will.
One of the blaggers yells from the back of the van, one last-ditch attempt to get himself out of the very deep hole he's dug himself; the assembled police officers swerve up to stare at him, his voice rising above the hurried "no, don't, shut up, you twat!"s of the other prisoners.
"Was only doing what Mr Keats told us to!"
Gene stands up slowly, dropping the towel on the floor of the Quattro as he advances towards the van, ignoring one or two of the blaggers shrinking back from him.
"'Oo did you just say asked yer ter do this?" he said quietly, ominously. The blagger gulped.
"You'll keep me safe?"
"Depends on how much you tell us. Tell me exactly 'oo asked yer ter do this blag, at this particular time, on this particular day."
"Mr Keats! James Keats. Friday 13th, 'e said."
Only then does Gene realise that the day is Friday 13th.
Devil's Day.
Keats.
Bingo.
"GENE!"
Bolly. Bugger.
A/N: I am so sorry about the delay, I had the worst writer's block ever for this! Hope you enjoyed it- please remember to review. Thanks for reading- REVIEW! Jazzola