(no subject)
Characters: Gene Hunt and Alex Drake
Rating: R for naked!Gene. Actually, R for, uh, Gene.
Time Period: Modern Day
Location: Peacock Room
Relative Date: Fifth day, morning
Status: Cloooooosed, no naked Gene for you.
His head was pounding. That was the first thing he noticed when he woke up, and he kept his eyes closed against the morning sunlight. No sense in making things worse - not yet, anyway. For the moment, he was content to remain in bed and think fond thoughts of a handful of paracetamol washed down with a few mugs of strong, black coffee - and maybe a bacon and egg butty. Or two, he decided as his stomach growled, and being hungry was definitely better than introducing the contents of his stomach to the toilet.
He didn't remember the previous night, which was a bit strange; Gene hadn't got that drunk in ages. He usually knew when to stop - when he was just drunk enough to drive the Quattro back to his flat and stagger up the stairs and into his bed (or onto the couch, which was equally likely). Still, it'd been a hell of a miserable day, what with that nutter and the car bomb and one sad, orphaned little girl who didn't quite understand what was going on, and Gene couldn't blame himself for drinking to forget it.
Finally, he peeled one eyelid open, and - well. This sure as hell wasn't his flat, and that was slightly problematic. What was worse was that there was definitely someone else in the bed with him. Gene had never been the type to simply sneak out in the morning (if only because birds always wanted another ride on the Gene Genie), which meant that he had to stay and face the music, a prospect that would've been much less daunting if he could've remembered what sort of shag she'd been.
And - oh, shit he recognised those rumpled brown curls. Shit, shit, shit, how could he not fucking remember what sort of shag Alex Drake was, or how they'd gotten there in the bloody first place? And where the hell were they, anyway? He'd been in Drake's flat enough to know that this was entirely too posh for her - and he never sprung for a hotel room for a bird he was only going to shag once.
He closed his eyes and buried his head in the pillow, trying his damnedest to fall asleep again. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could feign sleep till Drake got up and left, and then they could go to work and pretend that nothing had ever happened. (And maybe pigs would fly and secret photos of Maggie Thatcher in her younger days as a Page Three girl would surface.) He just didn't want to think about anything right now.
Rating: R for naked!Gene. Actually, R for, uh, Gene.
Time Period: Modern Day
Location: Peacock Room
Relative Date: Fifth day, morning
Status: Cloooooosed, no naked Gene for you.
His head was pounding. That was the first thing he noticed when he woke up, and he kept his eyes closed against the morning sunlight. No sense in making things worse - not yet, anyway. For the moment, he was content to remain in bed and think fond thoughts of a handful of paracetamol washed down with a few mugs of strong, black coffee - and maybe a bacon and egg butty. Or two, he decided as his stomach growled, and being hungry was definitely better than introducing the contents of his stomach to the toilet.
He didn't remember the previous night, which was a bit strange; Gene hadn't got that drunk in ages. He usually knew when to stop - when he was just drunk enough to drive the Quattro back to his flat and stagger up the stairs and into his bed (or onto the couch, which was equally likely). Still, it'd been a hell of a miserable day, what with that nutter and the car bomb and one sad, orphaned little girl who didn't quite understand what was going on, and Gene couldn't blame himself for drinking to forget it.
Finally, he peeled one eyelid open, and - well. This sure as hell wasn't his flat, and that was slightly problematic. What was worse was that there was definitely someone else in the bed with him. Gene had never been the type to simply sneak out in the morning (if only because birds always wanted another ride on the Gene Genie), which meant that he had to stay and face the music, a prospect that would've been much less daunting if he could've remembered what sort of shag she'd been.
And - oh, shit he recognised those rumpled brown curls. Shit, shit, shit, how could he not fucking remember what sort of shag Alex Drake was, or how they'd gotten there in the bloody first place? And where the hell were they, anyway? He'd been in Drake's flat enough to know that this was entirely too posh for her - and he never sprung for a hotel room for a bird he was only going to shag once.
He closed his eyes and buried his head in the pillow, trying his damnedest to fall asleep again. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could feign sleep till Drake got up and left, and then they could go to work and pretend that nothing had ever happened. (And maybe pigs would fly and secret photos of Maggie Thatcher in her younger days as a Page Three girl would surface.) He just didn't want to think about anything right now.