"Luigi's, Guv?"

Gene looked up from the stack of papers in front of him - the stack she was pretty sure he hadn't actually been reading for the last ten minutes.

"Mmm. Not tonight. I've got to get through these reports. And then I've got a few errands to run." He seemed to have more to say, but he didn't, instead looking away and making a show of straightening the pile of papers. "Keep an eye on the Tosser Twins for me tonight, eh? Don't let them terrorize the old Italian git too much. That's my job."

Right then, conversation over, it seemed. He obviously didn't want to talk about it.

She smiled. "See you tomorrow." She turned to go, her hand on the door.

"Hey, Bols…"

Knew it. There was something else. She could read him like a book. "Guv?"

She recognized that sheepish look. He was tapping his pen on the papers and not meeting her eyes.

"Just a… uh… personal question…"

Oh, this should be good, she thought. Strength, Alex.

"Yes?"

"What laundry do you use?"

She blinked. OK, that was unexpected.

"Um… there's a laundrette around the corner from my flat, why? Planning to stage a raid on dirty knickers?"

She shouldn't have said it, she knew, but she just couldn't help herself. He was too easy a target sometimes. God, this place was rubbing off on her.

His eyes narrowed. "Not tonight, you cheeky mare. I need to do a few loads."

"That's remarkably… domestic of you, Guv."

"Yeah, I, uh, usually have a cleaning lady in a couple days a week, you know, Mrs. Williams from custodial." He started to fidget again, leaning back in his chair. "Good woman, her husband passed away a few years back, she's happy to make a little extra every week." He leaned back in to the desk, resting his head on one hand and looked up at her with a slight pout. "I'm not 'ome much, so it keeps the dust off the floors. She takes in me laundry too. I mean, not all of it, you know, the suits and ties go to the dry cleaner, but she does the shirts and…"

She watched him in silence, her eyebrow arching higher, biting back an amused smile as he became self-aware of his babbling and his voice trailed off.

"And?"

"She went out o' town for a few weeks. Up to visit her brother in Leeds or some such. And I'm out of clean socks."

"I hear loafers and no socks are the going trend right now, Guv," she teased.

"Sure, if I want to look like a twat."

"I was thinking more Miami Vice."

Gene gave her a withering look that clearly said he hadn't a clue what she was on about.

"Hrm. Maybe it's a little early for that. Sorry, don't mind me."

"It's a constant struggle not to, believe me."

"But in the meantime, you've got a sock emergency."

"Yeah, Mrs. Williams won't be back until next week. It's just a couple loads, thought I'd do it meself instead of sending it out like I did last time she was away. It's either this or buy new ones, and I hate the shoppin' more."

"The Gene Genie matching his socks and folding. There's a scary thought."

"Yeah, well, don't let it get out, will you? Next thing Ray'll be asking me to do his, and I'm not 'aving his dirty shorts rubbin' against mine in the same load."

She laughed, which earned a rare full smile from him. He started to pour himself a drink. Later, when she would play back her next words in her mind, she never could pin down exactly what made her say it. She was sure about one thing, though, it was entirely his fault. Him and that damned smile.

"How about mine?"

He fumbled the bottle, whiskey sloshing onto the desk. "How about your what?"

"I mean… " She took a deep breath and started again. "Would you like some company? My laundry never seems like quite enough for a full load. We could share machines. I have detergent and all that, I'm guessing you don't?"

If she'd looked close enough, she might have seen a thought-bubble pop up above his head with the vivid mental picture of skimpy lace knickers tangling with men's briefs in warm, soapy water. She might also have seen his hand shook slightly. His voice, though, was perfectly steady and gave away nothing as he poured again.

"Yeah, OK, then. You can show me how to work the bastard machine, it's been a while."

He slugged back the drink.

"Great. It's a date, then. Meet me there in an hour. We'll fondle each other's dirty knickers." Oh my God. Did I just say that out loud?

Gene choked on his whiskey. Apparently, she had indeed. This was getting ridiculous. She felt a furious blush coming on.

"Only if I get to fondle them in situ, Bols." Points to Gene for the excellent recovery.

"Latin, Gene? Be still my heart."

"I save it for special occasions." He winked over his glass. "And best make it two hours, I have to run home first."

The first thing she thought, when he came through the door carrying a service-issue duffle slung over his shoulder, was that she'd never seen him in jeans before. She'd seen him drunk off his ass, covered in blood and asleep at all hours of the day and night everywhere from his office to his car to her own couch and floor, but aside from the Edgehampton vault - and that was a special circumstance, thankyouverymuch - she'd always seen him in suit pants and a dress shirt, more often than not with a tie.

And here he was, stalking towards her in jeans and a fleecy pullover with the zipper at the neck left open, thick gold chain visible. And the boots, of course. As he got closer, she also noticed that spikes of wet hair were sticking out at odd angles. He'd obviously taken a shower when he went home. His chin and neck bore a noticeable five-o-clock shadow. A quick shower, then.

Well, well. I think this is what is commonly referred to as "ruggedly handsome." Jeans really do excellent things for his legs.

There were a few others in the place. Gene was typically oblivious as he made his way toward her, but it didn't escape her that two cute 20-somethings were clocking him like a magnet as he passed, their approving eyes on his backside. Not without reason, she noted.

She shook her head and mentally smacked herself. That way lay madness, and she had enough crazy going on in there, thank you.

Just don't go there, Alex. No way. You are not checking out Gene Hunt's arse. His very fit, tightly denim-wrapped…

Gene dropped the duffle on the nearby sorting table and ran a hand through his wet hair once before turning to face her and stuffing both hands into his pockets.

"Alright then, Bolly?" She snapped back to reality at his voice. She had almost certainly been staring.

"Um. What do you think, whites first?"

"Whatever you say, you're the boss here." He upended the duffle onto the table while she loaded her whites into a machine. He threw his in after her, she walked him through the settings, dumped in soap, closed the lid and the machine started to fill. Two more loads went into adjacent machines, and Gene set them running.

"Simple as that, eh? I'm paying that old bird too much."

"She handles your dirty briefs, Gene. You can't possibly be paying her enough."

They settled into chairs near the sorting table.

"Mind if I read?" She pulled out her book. The Clan of the Cave Bear. It had just come out the year before, and Alex remembered her mother reading it not long before her death. It had been making the rounds of the WPCs in the department, and when she saw it on the bestseller rack, her curiosity had gotten the better of her.

Gene pulled out a hip flask and lit up. "Not if you don't mind if I take a nap." He put his feet up on another chair and took a swig, then held the flask out to her in silent offer. She smiled and shook her head. He took a long drag and another drink, leaned back and closed his eyes.

"I hope you realize, Bolly, it's not every bird I let help me get a load off."

"In your dreams, Gene."

"Damn right."