The Missus
“You won’t believe what that silly ponce did this time,” Gene called, slamming the front door. The nets across the frosted glass swung.
There was a muffled reply from the kitchen, and something smelt bloody marvellous. He hung up his coat, loosened his tie, and followed the smell.
“I said you won’t believe what the silly ponce did this time,” he repeated, coming around the kitchen door, seeing his wife leaning over the stove. She glanced up at him. Smiled knowingly, with steam in her face, cheeks flushed.
“Sam, again?”
“DI Tyler decided it might be good idea to do some… ‘team building’,” he ground out, feigning barely controlled rage, dropping heavily into a chair at the kitchen table.
His wife stopped what she was doing, putting a lid back on which ever pot she’d been eyeballing, and wiped her hands on her apron.
“And what’s ‘team building’, when it’s at ‘ome?”
“You ever ‘eard of ‘trust exercises’?”
She shook her head.
“Well let’s just say I trust that Tyler won’t be trying anything else like that again any time soon. I mean, anyone would think I went to the pub for my own amusement. That’s ruddy team building, not bloody nancy ‘exercises’.”
He cast her a brief grimace, and she chuckled. Gene tugged on her pinny, and she leant against the table, a hand slipping up behind his ear.
“Hello, darling,” she murmured, her chuckle still caught in one corner of her mouth. A wave of blonde fell over her face and Gene looked up at her, steadily. Steady, but not like he looked at Sam, weighing him up, openly trying to get the measure of him. Not like he watched the crims, judging, searching for some hint of guilt, searching his gut for the answers. He just looked at her. “Did you keep your city safe for me?” she asked softly.
Wordlessly, Gene stood, taking his hands from his pockets and engulfing his wife in a bear hug. She was so slight, compared to him. Not fragile, not weak, just small.
“Bloody ‘ell love, that team buildin’ must’ve been more traumatic than I thought,” she smiled. “That Sam’s got a lot to answer to.”
He kissed her. For an unimaginably long time, hand flat against the back of her head. He could feel her hand against his back.
“You can thank him tomorrow,” he muttered, pursing his lips a little. Swiftly, he kissed her on the forehead. “What’s for tea, Wifey?”
She shoved him back into his seat.
“What ever I put under your nose.”
“Good girl.”
She flashed him a bright grin, and it felt like a balloon was expanding in his chest.
“Not too good, I hope.”
Gene grunted. “Mm. As do I, apple of my eye.”
As night fell, Gene watched his wife in the kitchen, watched her while she ate, and hindered her efforts to wash up terribly. In the end, no doubt fed up with him repeatedly flicking water at her, he was banished to the living room, and told to light the fire.
He never told his wife in any great detail about work. It was enough that she understood its dangers, that she understood how much it meant to him. She knew that if she asked questions, there was a strong possibility that she’d hate the answers, and he knew she’d never understand that his home and his work could never, ever mix. How could he escape from the job, if it was at home as well?
“Budge up.”
Gene hadn’t realised he’d fallen asleep in front of the fire. The telly was gargling, not saying anything interesting. What caught his attention more was Mrs Hunt curling up next to him, tucking her feet underneath her. She twisted on the narrow sofa, looking up at him with those impossibly large, brown eyes.
“What?”
“Just makin’ sure, love. You’re all right?”
He sighed slowly, then his mouth twitched.
“Bloody magnificent,” he murmured, without a hint of sarcasm, and his wife smiled warmly. She glanced down, to where Gene’s hand was resting against her ankle. She still had her stockings on.
“You look uncomfortable,” she said, voicing what he’d been thinking. “Maybe you should get changed?”
“You can talk, Miss-still-in-her-breeches.”
“Mrs-still-in-her-breeches…”
Gene sighed again, looking at her, as though coming to a decision. This, it seems, turned out to be about right, as he got his feet and scooped her up into his arms as though she were no heavier than a rag doll.
“Genie! What’re you doin’?”
“Taking you to bed.”
“It’s half-seven…”
He paused at the bottom of the stairs and glared at her.
“Your point, Nancy Drew?”
“Oh…”
“Now, are you coming quietly, or are you goin’ to make a fuss?”
She bit her lip for a moment, and it was the most disarming thing he’d even seen. Well, it had been, until she kissed him, soundly, resolutely, taking more breath from his lungs than he’d have ever imagined was there in the first place.
He cleared his throat, swallowing. “Good.”
Gene sat down in their room, his wife in his lap, her arms around his shoulders and her mouth against his neck. He cradled her protectively, brushing wayward hair from her face.
“Bloody glorious, you are.”
She grinned, panting a soft, wet kiss on his mouth. “Stop bein’ soppy and get these bloody tights off me.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice.
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