Gene's human-shaped again. For the time being. He'd been working his way up towards consciousness when Maya stormed in and punched Harkness, and he's all kinds of unhappy about the whole situation. Not that there's a lot he can do about it.
He was advised to keep his right arm in a sling to avoid damaging the muscles any further. He's currently ignoring that advice.
And he recognizes that bear, never mind that the last time he saw her she was trying to eat him.
"DI Roy. Think I could have a word, once you're person-shaped?" Whenever that happens to be. No rush, he thinks.
Maya goes up onto her hindfeet, her entire not-so-impressive four foot height, and looks at him. Technically, he outranks her - even if he is from the Dark Ages of CID when they were so incompetent that they got her father killed. Of course, that's CID rules, and no one bothered to tell her who he was in Torchwood, or if there was a chain of command or any organizational structure at all.
And she really doesn't like the man. Even after he was one of the key members in keeping Sam from dying a violent death, she doesn't have to like him.
But there's no sense in being a bitch, so long as she has to live in a building with him. She grunts, using her nose to indicate the way back down the hall toward her room.
Right. Just give me a moment to slip into something more professional.
"No rush," Gene says, which is him trying to be diplomatic, "but I won't argue if you'd rather have this over with. I'll just wait here, then?"
He's not looking forward to this talk, but if Maya's going to be working with Torchwood, they're bound to see each other. Might as well get things sorted.
...It's amazing how diplomatic Gene can get when he's no longer Manchester's sheriff, able to solve everything by kicking the shit out of people. It really is.
Get this over with. That's ever so encouraging. But she nods, curtly, and trundles off.
It doesn't take Maya long to change into clothing, once she gets to her room. It's not as though she's going anyplace she needs to look her best, and the suit she took from the Conrad's stores is low-maintenance. Pants, trousers, shirt, coat, she's ready to go and heading back to the hall where he's waiting.
She stops not terribly close to him. Considering how well they got on the last times they talked...
"DI Roy. Nice to see you giving Action Lad a good punch, by the by. Someone had to." And that's not Gene's possessiveness of Sam speaking, no, not at all. Really, as much as he can see the necessity, that doesn't mean Jack didn't deserve a good hit from someone with a slightly softer heart.
"Thought I should apologise, though, while you're here. For that whole... Chipmunk to the face thing. I don't think clearly like that, and neither of us much likes the other. Still no excuse for attaching meself to a fellow copper's face and trying to bite her nose off."
Maya eyes him, reminding herself to relax at least marginally. That's probably the most civil you've been to me since we met. I wonder what brought that on.
"I'll forgive you lunging at my face if you forgive me trying to eat you," she says, and let that be the end of it. "As for Harkness, I can't help but think someone should have done that a good long time ago."
"Fair enough," Gene says. "And for Harkness... You were both right. Doesn't mean he didn't deserve to get hit for it. He's a soldier, and he thinks like one, which would be damned useful if we were actually at war. I'm grateful for his help in keeping Sam from getting killed, but as for the rest of it..."
He admires the man's efficiency. He just doesn't approve of death-traps.
"If it's not obvious, I don't much like him, either. Which might have something to do with him stealing me best DI from under me for all this Torchwood bollocks. Your DCI, I know, and let's not start that again."
"It's going to be a war if all the soldiers keep thinking it's one," Maya answers. "On all sides, not just him. Unfortunately there's not a good way to round them all into a room and give them a smack upside the head, and we'd probably get killed for trying."
She gives him a thin, lopsided smile at the remark bout Sam. DI, DCI.
"Chicago of an alternate bloody universe, I don't think rank matters all that much any more." She exhales. "If it helps, he was probably a better DI than a DCI anyway."
Gene shrugs. "If 'e'd just given that suggestion to withdraw before it became a bloodbath, I'd 'ave been happy. I'm all for violence as a problem-solving technique, but none of 'em had a chance." He shakes his head. "Tyler's rubbing off on me, all this talking things out."
He grins a bit. "Eh, he might've made a fine DCI, by my primitive standards, if 'e'd think about something other than his damned procedure all the time. He's got all the instincts of a damn fine copper. If only he'd use them."
Maya actually laughs, though it's more of a snerk. "I think he thought it came with the territory," she remarks. "He used to believe in gut instinct. Then he got a promotion and a posh desk and decided that if the books didn't support it, it wasn't real. Half of my wages were earned smacking him into seeing what was right there in front of him."
And then he stopped listening to her, dumped her from his case, got hit by a car, sunk into a coma, and ran off a building. But.
"Was that about the time he got the stick up his arse?" Gene asks, with evident interest. "I was wondering if he'd born with it in, or if that was just one of those things that came automatic with the flying car and the jetpack. ...which this sorry excuse for a future doesn't even have."
The idea that Sam Tyler actually believed in gut instinct at one point... Well, it gives him hope. Not that there isn't merit in his insistence on procedure, but Sam's too good to just let the gut-feeling side of things go to waste.
Maya is warming to this conversation, go figure. And who would have thought that she and the DCI from the dark ages would find their common interest to be the idiosyncracies of one Sam Tyler.
"The stick was a pre-existing condition," she says. And you'll have to talk to him about the jet packs. Science fiction was always more his thing than mine."
She considers for a moment.
"Send him a memo on them. He'll like that." Or we will, her tone is saying.
"I'll make a point to. If he's talking to me, these days." That just slips out, unintended, and he clearly doesn't sound happy about it. He forces himself not to curse, or wince, or do anything else that would give that bit away.
Just because he's almost getting to like this bird doesn't mean he's going to share all his Sam-related problems with her.
"Shame about the stick, though," he says, as if nothing had happened, as if it didn't matter in the slightest. "Though I can't much picture 'im without it."
Maya eyes him. Not that Sam hasn't been known to stop talking to or avoid people for days at a time, but that's usually more with people like... her. Not... his boss. Former boss. Whatever.
Of course, knowing Sam... of course, knowing Sam, he'd never let something like that out of his teeth. Of course, knowing Sam, that would be enough reason to make sure he never had to spend more time than was necessary in a room with someone.
"...oh, he didn't," she says, with the same tone and rhythm she'd use to say "Sam is an idiot." She follows it up with a Punjabi expletive, not entirely kindly comparing Sam to a cat. "Sam Tyler is an expert at many things. People aren't one of them. What I'd do, is I'd just point out that he was avoiding me and watch him scramble to prove that he wasn't. Of course, I have no idea what he's hiding from you about
( ... )
Well, that stunning bit of play-acting lasted no time at all.
"You realise that you're the last person I'd ever expect to be giving me advice on how to handle Sam Tyler, don't you?" He considers this. "Well, maybe if there was a midget in a tutu falling out of the sky, on fire, I'd expect that less." There's nothing hostile in his tone, but he does sound faintly bemused.
Maya snorts, 'cause she's just exactly that ladylike. "Dealing with Sam in any capacity means you have to make a study of him," she says. "Been there, more than one way. Not an experience I'm eager to repeat. But the least I can do is share my notes."
And find out if there's ever a good way to let slip that your DI or ex-DI or whatever the hell he was is probably nursing no small attraction and a misplaced sense of guilt over it for you.
He was advised to keep his right arm in a sling to avoid damaging the muscles any further. He's currently ignoring that advice.
And he recognizes that bear, never mind that the last time he saw her she was trying to eat him.
"DI Roy. Think I could have a word, once you're person-shaped?" Whenever that happens to be. No rush, he thinks.
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And she really doesn't like the man. Even after he was one of the key members in keeping Sam from dying a violent death, she doesn't have to like him.
But there's no sense in being a bitch, so long as she has to live in a building with him. She grunts, using her nose to indicate the way back down the hall toward her room.
Right. Just give me a moment to slip into something more professional.
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He's not looking forward to this talk, but if Maya's going to be working with Torchwood, they're bound to see each other. Might as well get things sorted.
...It's amazing how diplomatic Gene can get when he's no longer Manchester's sheriff, able to solve everything by kicking the shit out of people. It really is.
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It doesn't take Maya long to change into clothing, once she gets to her room. It's not as though she's going anyplace she needs to look her best, and the suit she took from the Conrad's stores is low-maintenance. Pants, trousers, shirt, coat, she's ready to go and heading back to the hall where he's waiting.
She stops not terribly close to him. Considering how well they got on the last times they talked...
"DCI Hunt."
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"Thought I should apologise, though, while you're here. For that whole... Chipmunk to the face thing. I don't think clearly like that, and neither of us much likes the other. Still no excuse for attaching meself to a fellow copper's face and trying to bite her nose off."
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"I'll forgive you lunging at my face if you forgive me trying to eat you," she says, and let that be the end of it. "As for Harkness, I can't help but think someone should have done that a good long time ago."
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He admires the man's efficiency. He just doesn't approve of death-traps.
"If it's not obvious, I don't much like him, either. Which might have something to do with him stealing me best DI from under me for all this Torchwood bollocks. Your DCI, I know, and let's not start that again."
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She gives him a thin, lopsided smile at the remark bout Sam. DI, DCI.
"Chicago of an alternate bloody universe, I don't think rank matters all that much any more." She exhales. "If it helps, he was probably a better DI than a DCI anyway."
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He grins a bit. "Eh, he might've made a fine DCI, by my primitive standards, if 'e'd think about something other than his damned procedure all the time. He's got all the instincts of a damn fine copper. If only he'd use them."
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And then he stopped listening to her, dumped her from his case, got hit by a car, sunk into a coma, and ran off a building. But.
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The idea that Sam Tyler actually believed in gut instinct at one point... Well, it gives him hope. Not that there isn't merit in his insistence on procedure, but Sam's too good to just let the gut-feeling side of things go to waste.
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"The stick was a pre-existing condition," she says. And you'll have to talk to him about the jet packs. Science fiction was always more his thing than mine."
She considers for a moment.
"Send him a memo on them. He'll like that." Or we will, her tone is saying.
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Just because he's almost getting to like this bird doesn't mean he's going to share all his Sam-related problems with her.
"Shame about the stick, though," he says, as if nothing had happened, as if it didn't matter in the slightest. "Though I can't much picture 'im without it."
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Of course, knowing Sam... of course, knowing Sam, he'd never let something like that out of his teeth. Of course, knowing Sam, that would be enough reason to make sure he never had to spend more time than was necessary in a room with someone.
"...oh, he didn't," she says, with the same tone and rhythm she'd use to say "Sam is an idiot." She follows it up with a Punjabi expletive, not entirely kindly comparing Sam to a cat. "Sam Tyler is an expert at many things. People aren't one of them. What I'd do, is I'd just point out that he was avoiding me and watch him scramble to prove that he wasn't. Of course, I have no idea what he's hiding from you about ( ... )
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"You realise that you're the last person I'd ever expect to be giving me advice on how to handle Sam Tyler, don't you?" He considers this. "Well, maybe if there was a midget in a tutu falling out of the sky, on fire, I'd expect that less." There's nothing hostile in his tone, but he does sound faintly bemused.
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And find out if there's ever a good way to let slip that your DI or ex-DI or whatever the hell he was is probably nursing no small attraction and a misplaced sense of guilt over it for you.
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