Theatrical Muse #346
What haven't you finished yet?
Gene watches Alex go into the pub, a little wistfully. Seems like whenever he grows close to someone, they leave - but that's the nature of the world he's created. Makes for a bloody miserable time when he remembers it, though. But then everything scabs over, someone new comes into town, and the whole damn cycle starts over again.
Thing is, he doesn't know how much longer he's got left. If his world is meant to mirror the other one, then it doesn't seem like his style of policing can work much longer. Hell, he's already becoming outdated enough. A few more years, and he'll be a walking anachronism. He knows this, in these fleeting moments when he's vaguely aware of everything, and he wonders when he'll finally get to go inside the Railway Arms.
Eternity is being at the pub with his mates - Chris and Ray being divs, Tyler being a pain in the arse, with Annie to try and mitigate some of his sheer Sam-ness, Shaz being exasperated by Chris, and Drake forever drinking crap red wine and going on about incomprehensible things. There's all the ones before them, and all the ones who have yet to come, but right now, before they become fuzzy memories, they're his team.
He feels tired and weary, worn out from his prolonged battle with Keats, and all he wants to do is go and have a scotch. Maybe even a double - all right, definitely a double. But he knows that he's not done yet. Maybe one day, he'll be able to pass down the mantle to some young idiot who's got more pride than brains, but till then, it's just him. And that's how it is.
The memories start to fade by the next morning, no matter how hard he tries to cling to them. He thinks about writing them down, maybe, or recording them on tape - but it's just not the sort of thing he'd do. Memories, especially here, are ephemeral, and it seems wrong to try and capture them like that. Everything in his world changes, has to change; Gene is the only constant.
He pours himself a tumbler of scotch and raises an eyebrow at the Mercedes-Benz brochure on his desk. Well, all right, maybe a fancy new motor would do him some good. He certainly can't walk around London, and he wouldn't be caught dead in a squad car. A Merc seems a little posh for him, but who's he to complain?
Just as he's about to look at the cars, he hears a commotion coming from outside, and a little tugging at his senses. (He never gets a bloody break, does he? Except the one thing Gene hates is a break, not having anything to do but be alone with his thoughts and, typically, large quantities of alcohol.)
"Where's my iPhone?" an irritated young voice demands. "What the hell is going on here?"
(Alex's entrance had been better, he thinks, then dismisses it with a shake of his head.)
"Oi! You!" he barks from his desk, leaning so he's visible in the open door. "A word in your shell-like, mate?"
And so it begins again.
Muse: Gene Hunt
Fandom: Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes
Words: 532
Gene watches Alex go into the pub, a little wistfully. Seems like whenever he grows close to someone, they leave - but that's the nature of the world he's created. Makes for a bloody miserable time when he remembers it, though. But then everything scabs over, someone new comes into town, and the whole damn cycle starts over again.
Thing is, he doesn't know how much longer he's got left. If his world is meant to mirror the other one, then it doesn't seem like his style of policing can work much longer. Hell, he's already becoming outdated enough. A few more years, and he'll be a walking anachronism. He knows this, in these fleeting moments when he's vaguely aware of everything, and he wonders when he'll finally get to go inside the Railway Arms.
Eternity is being at the pub with his mates - Chris and Ray being divs, Tyler being a pain in the arse, with Annie to try and mitigate some of his sheer Sam-ness, Shaz being exasperated by Chris, and Drake forever drinking crap red wine and going on about incomprehensible things. There's all the ones before them, and all the ones who have yet to come, but right now, before they become fuzzy memories, they're his team.
He feels tired and weary, worn out from his prolonged battle with Keats, and all he wants to do is go and have a scotch. Maybe even a double - all right, definitely a double. But he knows that he's not done yet. Maybe one day, he'll be able to pass down the mantle to some young idiot who's got more pride than brains, but till then, it's just him. And that's how it is.
The memories start to fade by the next morning, no matter how hard he tries to cling to them. He thinks about writing them down, maybe, or recording them on tape - but it's just not the sort of thing he'd do. Memories, especially here, are ephemeral, and it seems wrong to try and capture them like that. Everything in his world changes, has to change; Gene is the only constant.
He pours himself a tumbler of scotch and raises an eyebrow at the Mercedes-Benz brochure on his desk. Well, all right, maybe a fancy new motor would do him some good. He certainly can't walk around London, and he wouldn't be caught dead in a squad car. A Merc seems a little posh for him, but who's he to complain?
Just as he's about to look at the cars, he hears a commotion coming from outside, and a little tugging at his senses. (He never gets a bloody break, does he? Except the one thing Gene hates is a break, not having anything to do but be alone with his thoughts and, typically, large quantities of alcohol.)
"Where's my iPhone?" an irritated young voice demands. "What the hell is going on here?"
(Alex's entrance had been better, he thinks, then dismisses it with a shake of his head.)
"Oi! You!" he barks from his desk, leaning so he's visible in the open door. "A word in your shell-like, mate?"
And so it begins again.
Muse: Gene Hunt
Fandom: Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes
Words: 532