milliways_bar | (no subject)

Gene's only come down for a bit of space, and also to get a sneaky pint in. He never expected to see...well, any of them. So he goes a bit white, and stops dead ten yards away.

He's dressed casually too. Jeans and an old black rugby shirt. Probably looks like shit, but he's never one to worry about that.

'Shaz.'

Screaming in pubs - not done.

Screaming in pubs in front of your DCI (she made that choice, consciously, she came back and for just a day she was DC Granger, under DCI Hunt, and it was the most glorious day ever) - this is really and truly Not Done.

Though really, she'd protest that the jeans and rugby shirt isn't exactly making things easier.

With a visible effort she swallows the rising tide of emotion (fear? fury? She really can't tell right now) and nods, just a tiny bit too sharply.

"Sir."

She's wearing...he looks over her clothes. Was she wearing...?

He can't remember. And her tone of voice - well, she was sometimes a bit pointed with him. It might not mean what he's afraid it means.

'...how are you?'

Probably a stupid thing to say. If she's from...before, then she'll be suspicious. He hasn't asked how she is since she got stabbed two years ago.

"... Forgive me sayin', Guv, but isn't that a bit of a daft question?" She was dead. Is dead. And in the wrong bloody pub.

How, exactly, is she supposed to be?

...

If this means there is another test, or... thing, or some new revelation that she's not dead, just confused, there might actually be screaming.

Shit.

She's from after.

Or maybe not? It would be bad, very bad, to jump to the wrong conclusion here. But her tone of voice says a lot.

He puts his pint down on the nearest table, and tries to remember how it feels like to be a DCI.

'What's out there?'

He nods towards the door.

'Where've you come in from?'

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know, and some of her grimly-held-onto control wobbles because if he doesn't know then this wasn't planned and she's lost again and some (a lot) of the panic that tore through her when she first found out finds a place to dig in again because it's bloody not fair, she's twenty-six and it wasn't supposed to go like this and...

And she's a Dectective Constable so shut it.

She tries, very hard, not to think about who's voice her brain decided to use when adding that last tidbit.

"We're goin' to the pub, Guv. Me an' Chris, an' Ray, an' Mum.... but you weren't coming. Not this time." She's distantly proud of how her voice didn't wobble when naming Chris. Because Chris should be here. When she finds him, she'll tell him so.

'Oh,' he says, softly, and looks at his feet.

He's still wearing his snakeskin cowboy boots. Couldn't be without them. And he takes a deep breath, shoves his hands in his pockets, and forces himself to meet her eye.

He wants to ask where the lads are. At the same time, he can't know what goes on in that pub. Not just that he doesn't want to. He can't.

'You'd better come an' have a drink.'

"Are you sure..." She had thought, once she got over (or at least started on getting over) the shock of not being where she thought she'd be, that she should go back out, and try again.

Of course, with her luck, she'd just end up somewhere worse next time.

Like with him.

And doesn't that skeeve her more than just a little bit?

He tilts his head, and tries to ignore the stab through his chest. She's looking at him like...he doesn't know what. But it doesn't feel good.

Like any of this feels good.

'Yeah.'

But if she wants to run away, he's hardly going to blame her.

"Alri', then." She was quite alright, just a moment ago, with getting to the end of it all. But she also trusts the Guv, and if he says it's alright to have a drink and postpone the inevitable for a while... then it must be.

She tried doubting, once. It was rubbish.

She might still be pale (as a ghost) but her steps are firm when she steps forward, away from the door.

He nods once, picks up his pint and walks to the bar.

'Give her whatever she wants,' he mutters to it as he sits, because the least he can do is stand her a drink.

This is kind of excruciating. He wants to default to DCI mode, but how the hell is he supposed to pull that off convincingly? It wasn't too bad that last day, but that was a few days ago now, and the truth has hit pretty hard.

Something neutral then, maybe.

'You didn' expect to come here, I take it?'

"Not really, no." The Bar helpfully supplies a glass of the house red that Luigi would slip her when the team wasn't around to give her grief about it. "Does... does that mean that I'm not really..." Even now, she has a bit of trouble actually saying it. It makes it more real, somehow, and that's a brutal thing.

His heart sinks further. He thought that this had been accepted. But then, there wasn't much time to process, let alone allow any explanations.

'No.'

He's as tactful as he can be, but he's not really known for tact.

'No, it doesn' mean that.'

He can understand the unwillingness to say it. And tries to crack a smile.

'But this one's nothing t'do with me, I'm sure you'll be glad to know.'

Well, there's acceptance, and then there's hope, and sometimes things get a tiny bit muddled. Like how you know you somehow got yourself into the CID and actually made detective, but you also know (and are trying somewhat desperately not to think about too hard) that you died, fairly uselessly, at the hands of an inept robber.

She likes to think they caught that creep. Caught him and hung him high, for killing a copper.

"Yes sir, thank you sir." She sees the effort, and tries to reciprocate. "Does that mean the pay'll be better, Guv?"

'If I set the pay rates, I'd be livin' in Spain by now, Granger.'

He wishes. Only not.

'You don' have to call me that, y'know. If you don' want to.'

He says it quietly, looking at his pint. He doesn't want her to feel like she has to, given everything.

The sheer illogic of that statement has her blinking dumbly at him for a very long few moments.

"All due respect, Guv, but sayin' things like that makes me worried you've been knocked over the head." She informs him, tartly. "You're my Guv, an' you always will be."

She doesn't quite roll her eyes at him.

Really.

He looks at her sideways. And then his face might just split into a bit of a grin, and he sits a bit straighter.

'Not knocked over the head.'

She's a good lass. He's always said so.

'So, you're goin' to stay for a bit? It's not that bad.'

He toys with his glass a bit, then has a drink.

'Alex is here too.'

Oh really? She very pointedly doesn't say anything about the relationship she's been watching between her DCI and her DI. Very, very pointedly, and she takes a sip of her wine.

"Suppose I should. Haven't seen Chris about, an' if he ends up here too he'd need pointing toward the right door, wouldn't he?" It's less a question and more fond exasperation, but still. Someone has to look after him.

He's been aware of the rumours for ages, and has purposefully done nothing to discourage them. He seems to remember having a notion that if she heard them too, it might push her towards seeing what was right there for the noticing. Doesn't matter now.

'I haven' seen him either. Or Ray.'

The question hovers, and he tries to think of a way to ask without being told much.

'You didn' see them in...there?'

"Never got in there, Guv." And that tone is just as wry as it is tired. "Just my sort of luck, innit?"

'Shouldn' worry about it.'

If he acts like it's normal, it will be, right?

'The beer's not that good, and Nelson's a cheeky bastard.'

He nudges her lightly with his arm.

'An' it's not goin' anywhere.'

She shoots him a swift look, looking for confirmation. He could break her heart right now just by hinting that he's joking about that last bit.

"Well. That's something, then."

Not joking in the least. That is something he would never joke about.

Besides, he doesn't have the power to remove the gateway to Up There. Heaven. Whatever you want to call it. All of that is out of his control.

'Yeah.'

He has a drink.

'For what it's worth, I'm sorry you found out the way you did. Keats-'

He stops, because he doesn't know the details of how they were told. But it should have been him that did it.

'- he didn' have the right.'

"Yeah, well. Figured it was..." She waves her off hand for the word, something to capture the whole mess and make it fit into some sort of natural progression. "Punishment. Sort of. For listenin' to him in the first place."

Not so much told, as shown, in vivid color detail. There was so much blood.

Hurriedly, she downs a hefty portion of her glass to try and re-bury that particular bit of the memory.

He blinks.

'...what're you on about?'

Punishment?

'Why would he punish you for listenin' to him? He wanted you to listen to him.'