Title: Contrary Evidence

Author: Cortina-Quattro

Pairing: Gene & Alex

Rating: M

Setting: Between Ep 1.6 and 1.7…?

Notes: A huge debt of thanks to KoB/ Cutter for beta'ing this.


Alone, finally, even if it is only the evidence room. Taking a swig of the coffee Shaz had handed her earlier, she nearly spits it out. She swallows it with a grimace, letting out a brittle laugh, letting fall the file of papers in her other hand and leaning wearily against the cabinets. God. She wants a proper latte. Bloody Starbucks. Charles and Camilla, thanks very much. Microwave popcorn. Global Warming, even. Posh and Becks, for God's sake. Anything, anything from her own time.

She could have died, in that cold store. Almost did, if it hadn't been for Gene. Without warning, she takes a deep breath to laugh and suddenly finds herself weeping, sliding down to the floor with her back to the wall, makeup running in this tiny evidence room and if someone sees her, she'll be mortified but she can't stop. And if someone in particular sees her, she might do something utterly foolish like blurt out everything and that would be worse than mortifying. Yet the sobs keep coming until she's crying so damn hard she can no longer make a sound, can't breathe, curling into herself, making little moaning sounds that don't quite sound human. She barely hears the door slam open but distinctly hears him, "Christ! What is it? Are you hurt? What happened?" Of course. She knew this would happen, his sense of her misery seems to be uncanny. And she can't even properly take pleasure in the abject worry in his voice.

She's now close to hyperventilating because all she can feel is her own stupid curly hair in her hands, hair that should be straight, and she can hear Gary Numan on the radio and it isn't a "classic 80's" station. She's nursing yet another hangover since she can't seem to stop herself from wanting to be senseless drunk every night, and everything is just too much. Right now, she simply can't handle it anymore. She is broken.

She feels his hands grab her shoulders as he kneels in front of her, shaking her slightly, wonders if he's going to slap her. I'd slap me, she thinks madly and then she lets out an eerie, jittering laugh amidst the tears and he does something much worse: he kicks the door shut with one foot while sliding to the floor beside her and taking her in his arms, holding her. "Breathe, Bolls, for Christ's sake. You're going to make yourself sick." She's gasping in great breaths of air, trying to stop and indeed feeling sick now, chest aching, throat burning, shuddering. She can't remember crying this hard since childhood, not even on the first night here, missing Molly. He's rubbing her back and she's burrowing her face against his chest, still making those low moaning noises, almost grunts as she tries to catch her breath against the pain. He pushes her away from him, holding her face up, "Breathe, damn it." Like a child, she takes in great hiccupping breaths, feeling faint from hyperventilation, feeling him roughly wiping away the smudged tear-tracks under her eyes. "That's it," he murmurs, and she begins to feel oxygen slowly coming back into her lungs, the racking sobs subsiding but letting out one last moan because it hurts so badly.

He continues to dab at her cheeks, more gently now, and when she leans back into his chest he allows it, rocking her ever so slightly as she continues to tremble. She moves her arms to encircle his waist and feels him stiffen but not push her away. She thinks she can feel his chin rest against her hair, mouth dropping soft kisses into it and hearing him inhaling the scent as he gently rubs her back. She slowly traces circles in return, running her fingertips lightly down his spine and this time he jumps slightly, pulling her away from his chest to look down at her. She looks back up at him, knowing she must be a mess, knowing her eyes must be red, drowning in mascara, but something in her must be unguarded, because his own eyes widen slightly and he takes in a swift breath. "Don't," he warns, but she reaches up, tracing his cheek with her thumb and before he can stop her, she's pulled his head down to hers. And when their lips meet, he doesn't resist her at all.

She is not gentle, she is desperate; there is no hesitant exploration only a full-on impassioned meeting of their mouths with him responding brilliantly, tongues sliding, lips being bitten. God, he can kiss; she hadn't expected that. He's clutching at her back, devouring her and she gasps as he pulls away for air, reaching for him, hearing him groan into her mouth and feeling very much like she is about to let him fuck her senseless right here in the middle of this room. She hears him mutter, "No… not like this," before she's kissing him yet again, drowning his protests.

She starts to move her hands slowly down his body and hears him growl again, "No," denying the evidence of his desire, but not stopping her. So definitely not stopping her, in fact, that said evidence is all to the contrary. Her hand has slid down towards his lap and she reaches out to stroke the length of him. He's already utterly, fantastically hard beneath the fabric and she suddenly can't think of anything but needing him inside her right then and there. But it has the complete opposite effect of what she wanted, as he suddenly thrusts her away, getting to his feet, getting away from her.

He's breathing hard, leaning forward against the wall so that his back is to her, his hands braced as his shoulders rise and fall rapidly. Long moments pass where there is only the harsh sound of their breathing. After a minute or two, he stands up straight, still not facing her.

"You all right?" he asks evenly, only a hint of raggedness at the edge.

"Gene," she whispers, wanting to tell him it wasn't just the sorrow, wasn't just the loss of control that made her do it. She clears her throat and tries again, more strongly, "I just..."

"'Cause if you are," he cuts her off, "I'd advise you wash your face before coming back."

"I..." she's not sure what to say, but she wants him to know she meant it, that she still means it.

"Don't," he snaps, finally turning to look at her. "Just... don't," he finishes softly. His eyes are blazing and she can still see lust in them. She slowly gets to her feet, intending to reach out to him, but he's out the door before she can.

And she thinks for a moment that she's going to cry again, but she swallows it down, walks out the door to the ladies and washes her face. She takes a good few minutes to think, to calm herself, to realise what a stupid mistake that just was, all heartache and hormones without contemplating possible consequences. It's only fear and loneliness that made her do such a stupid, stupid thing. Only her psyche, reaching out for any scrap of comfort or momentary oblivion that it can possibly find, even to the point of doing something as abysmally stupid as kissing Gene Hunt. Oh, God. Kissing him wasn't supposed to be that good, damn it.

She frowns, contemplating. This is the second time he's walked out on her.

And then she smiles to herself, acknowledging the truth of what she truly wants, promising herself that she will get him where she wants him. Eventually.