A/N: Well, only one more chapter after this one, so we've almost reached the end of the road. Thanks so much to everyone for receiving my little tale so warmly. I've had so much fun thinking up all sorts of different meals for Sandra and Gerry to enjoy, but more fun knowing that people are actually reading what I've written!

Chapter Twenty: Snacks and the Single Girl

1.

"Blech!" Brian exclaims, opening the car door to spit the half-masticated fragments of wasabi pea onto the asphalt. "Bloody hell, how can you eat those? They're horrible!"

Sandra carefully plucks the bag from his fingers before he can spill any and fishes out a handful of the spicy, crunchy peas. "I like them," she says calmly, popping the entire handful into her mouth. "Plus there's a vegetable in there, so it gives you the illusion that they're healthy."

"The green pea is actually a legume, which –"

"Brian."

"Right. Malteser?"

"Don't mind if I do. Have you got any of those crisps left?"

"Which, prawn cocktail or cheese and onion?"

"Cheese and onion."

"Here. You didn't forget the Dairy Milk, did you?"

"You've got it there in my handbag."

Sandra longs to be home in a tracksuit watching Freeview and demolishing several pints of ice cream and a very large Chinese take-away, but in her bizarre world, this will have to suffice; "this" being dead boring surveillance, hours and hours of it, with Brian and about fifteen pounds of snacks for company. Sandra will be taking those fifteen pounds home on her hips, alas.

Supposedly some people lose their appetites when they're upset. At least, Sandra has heard tell of this phenomenon. She wouldn't know, since she's busy eating for England, her usual emotional response.

"What are you going to do if Gerry doesn't come back?"

Sandra washes the crisps down with a mouthful of Pepsi. "He'll be back."

Brian considers, looking out through the rain-speckled window. "It's been a week, and no word."

"He'll be back, Brian," she repeats firmly, because that's her job. She's the governor.

When Gerry didn't show up for work on Friday, Sandra had told Strickland he was off sick. When Monday rolled around and still no Gerry, she'd told the D.A.C. it was flu, and both times Jack and Brian had looked on wordlessly while she lied.

She hasn't told either of them that Gerry had been as good as his word: he'd emailed his resignation to her first thing Monday morning. Sandra hadn't accepted it, and she isn't planning to.

When Brian speaks again, his voice is hushed. "What's this all about, Sandra?"

Well, finally. She can't believe it has taken one of them this long to come out and ask. She can only assume it's because they weren't sure they wanted to know. She's had enough time to anticipate the question, so she should've had a ready answer, but Sandra still doesn't know what to say.

"Gerry's… upset," she offers lamely after a moment. "With me. Upset enough that he doesn't want to work with me any more."

Brian stares at her. "You must be joking. You are talking about Gerry Standing? Everybody knows that under all his pissin' and moanin', he thinks you're the greatest thing since –" As he searches for a suitable comparison, his eye falls on a discarded wrapper on the floorboard. "Since Jaffa cakes."

"Not any more."

Sandra glances at her watch. Jack will be arriving soon to relieve Brian. The two-on, two-off system tends not to work so well when there are only three of you.

What if he really doesn't come back? she asks herself.

He's not, is he?

The thought makes her stomach ache, a visceral, twisting pain that she can't blame on all the crap she's been ingesting. If he really leaves for good, it will be her fault at least as much as his.

They'll interview for a replacement, someone who doesn't smoke in the office and wear obnoxious ties and often break into the most annoying songs possible.

Someone who won't flash her that mischievous grin or look at her like she's the sexiest thing he's ever seen, even when she's frayed and half-shattered and has just finished giving him a bollocking and probably smells of stale coffee and sweat.

What are you going to do, Brian had asked, because she's the boss. It's her job to fix it. So fix it, Pullman, she tells herself.

But how can she?

She hates the thought of replacing Gerry at UCOS, but maybe there are other places in her life where she can't replace him at all.

This was never, ever supposed to happen, she thinks, and the wrenching in her gut increases. Gerry is laughably wrong for her. No sane woman would willingly get involved with a 61-year-old smoker, drinker, and gambler with three ex-wives, four daughters, a dodgy sense of humour and a Lothario complex.

She didn't choose Gerry. And yet… there he is. And the thought of him not being there any more makes her physically ill, so ill that for a moment she's afraid she'll vomit all over the front seat of her car, Brian and Maltesers and all.

Gerry has somehow crept inside, scaling her walls or tunneling underneath, and she hadn't realised it until she'd opened her eyes in the hospital and only wanted to see one face. That had been terrifying.

Not as bad as the current reality, though. Not as bad as this horrible physical pain and the understanding that it can only mean one thing.

It means that he can hurt her, really hurt her. It means she's vulnerable, and she hates being vulnerable.

It means that somehow, somewhere, she'd begun to love the man. What the hell does it say about her that she only recognises love when it causes such pain?

Sandra doesn't particularly want to love Gerry, or be loved by him, but here she is. The heart, apparently, will want what the heart will want, even if the head disagrees.

Shit. Just shit. This is such a bad idea. Look at his track record. Look at hers! Gerry had at least tried to make commitments; Sandra habitually fled in the opposite direction.

If he ever even thought of screwing around on her, she'd murder him. She would have to make that very clear.

You were wrong, Mum, she thinks, a little delirious from her carb high. I do need someone. Oh, sure, I could survive without him; but maybe I need him to make my life better. And maybe worse, too. Probably worse.

"Who knows?"

Sandra realises she has spoken aloud when Brian frowns at her and asks, "All right there?"

Peachy. I'm just having a conversation with my dead mother. "Yeah, fine. Sorry."

She doesn't know how the two of them could manage to make it work. The whole thing will probably self-destruct horribly inside six months, obliterating large swathes of greater London and ravaging the surrounding countryside. But she'll hate herself if she doesn't at least try.

Jack has pulled up a couple of car lengths back. Sandra suddenly snaps to attention. "Brian, you've not got anything really special on this evening, have you?"

"When have I ever?" he replies philosophically.

"Come on, then." Before Jack has time to get out of his car, Sandra is shepherding Brian in his direction. Jack rolls down his window as he watches them approach.

"Yes, madam?"

"Change of plans. You're relieving me, not Brian."

Brian grins knowingly as he opens the passenger side door. "You're going to talk some sense into Gerry, aren't you?"

"You might as well not bother, "Jack puts in darkly, "unless you think you'll have much better luck than I did. I've just come from there, and it was bloody useless."

Sandra squares her shoulders resolutely. "I'm going to try another tactic."

As she pulls away from the kerb thirty seconds later, she accelerates so violently that the tyres squeal, and Jack winces. "Poor Gerry."

"Poor me," protests Brian, suddenly crestfallen. "She's taken me Maltesers!"

2.

Sandra had stopped at her flat to pick up exactly one item. She didn't bother freshening her make-up or even brushing her hair; Gerry knows what she looks like, and besides, smooth hair or a bright coat of lipstick aren't going to be the make-or-break factors tonight.

Twenty minutes later she's ringing his doorbell and telling herself, Deep breaths. Just pretend you're facing down an armed criminal, and everything will be fine.

Then he opens the door and she thinks, Christ, no, this is much scarier.

He all but groans when he sees her, and Sandra blurts out, "A few months ago you told me you needed UCOS."

Gerry steps back in preparation for closing the door. "Look, Jack's already been here with the whole you're-breaking-up-the-team line, so you can save it. I'm tellin' you what I told him: it's my choice, and I've made it." He scowls at her. "Some decisions you're not in charge of even when you're the guv'nor, Sandra."

She steps up onto the stoop so he has to let her in or bodily shove her out, and holds up her hand. "Yeah, I know. I can't do anything to stop you, and neither can Jack or Brian. If you really want to leave UCOS, leave UCOS."

Gerry looks astonished. This obviously isn't what he'd expected from her.

You ain't heard nothin' yet, pal, she thinks, and gulps down a hysterical laugh. She swallows hard, collecting herself. Just do it, Pullman. Don't be a sniveling coward.

"Leave UCOS," Sandra repeats, meeting his gaze steadily, blue on blue, even as her voice trembles. "But don't leave me."