I don't own Ashes to Ashes, and would certainly not be in this predicament if I did!
So, I'm writing again… I'm really struggling with it though. I was enjoying The Art of Loving, until I realised that I couldn't just have angsty-angsty all the way through. So I tried to break from that with Enduring Hope, but then I realised that it wasn't in an angsty-angsty place. So then I looked at The Valley of the Dying Son, and became morbidly depressed… So then I came here, and I started over; maybe this will help me come to terms with Series 3 Episode 8, 3 years late.
He stood, staring at the wooden door in awe.
It was just a door, he told himself. Much like any other door he supposed, and far more plain than most he had encountered. But this was a particularly special door, beyond which lay rest and recuperation, peace and acceptance… It had been so long in coming; so many years of wandering hopelessly, of striving to become someone of note, of never feeling quite good enough… And now here he was; finally.
He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the abandoned street, the silence of the night as the stars shone vividly overhead. This was it, he thought, this was his kingdom. A part of him – a smaller part than he would have expected – longed to stay, to continue living in this utopia, this patch of land where his rule was final, his word the law… But it was only a small part. The rest of him – the rest of him knew that now was the time to let go. His head and his feet were weary, and a lifetime on the beat was starting to show. He was older, now, wiser; not the young constable with a number on his lapel, but a hardened detective, with eyes that had seen all that this world had to offer him.
No, he thought to himself, he was done here. The legacy was complete, and whoever stepped up to the plate next were welcome to it – though he had left the task of appointing his replacement to the Commissioner, seeing no point in making the decision himself; God only knew he would never have thought anyone right for the role, and he'd have been stuck here for eternity, wallowing in his own self-righteous pride. He glanced around the street one final time, seeing in his minds eye, as he did so, the string of Police Officers he had let go at this very door; there was Jimmy Ricket, the DC who had jumped in front of a pedestrian and landed in 1958; there was Alice Preet, the WPC who had been mugged on her way home from work, only to land in 1963; there was Lewis Savage; Andrew Peters; Paul Scriven; Jack 'the lad' James…
He thought of Ray; the northern copper as rough and tumble as he was, the doggedly loyal and stubbornly brave bugger who had followed him from Manchester to London without thought or question. The brash drinking partner, whose 'act-now and think later' mentality had got him into as much trouble in this world as it had in the last.
He thought of Chris; the daft, dim-witted prat with a heart the size of an ocean and the colour of gold. The source of humour and youth who, despite all of their bravado, was as loyal as he was kind, who would jump in front of a speeding bullet if you asked him to, and who had finally gone from boy to man when he met smart-alek Granger.
He thought of Annie; the bright little plonk who'd somehow managed to fit into CID, despite all of the male efforts to the contrary. The plonk with as much spunk as any bloke, and twice the determination, not to mention the patience of a saint when it came to marrying nancy-boy Tyler...
Tyler; Sam Tyler. Gene smirked, his heart swelling as he remembered his former friend, the first of his charges to really confront him, to apprehend his behaviours and disagree with his decisions. The first to make him reconsider anything, to see past the anger and the hurt that had always existed within him, but of which for so long he had had no recollection… He didn't know exactly what lay behind the door, but he hoped it included Sam, if for no other reason than to give him a good twatting round the face for leaving such a bloody great mess behind him…
Wasn't really a mess though, he thought, until Alex started poking her nose in.
Alex… Alex Drake; she was one person he could scarcely bare to think of without experiencing a tightness in his chest. So he pushed the thought of her away, and focused instead on the street, drinking in every detail as he began to wonder what might lie on the other side of the door. With a deep breath, he inhaled the cool, crisp air, feeling it fill his lungs as the gentle breeze teased his face and hair. He looked at the brick wall before him, textured with cement and pebblestones, red brick and years upon years of scratch marks. He observed the broken glass bottles that littered the pavement, the crisp packets caught on the wind and flitting down the street, and he wondered briefly if there would ever be fresh, cold air against his skin again, felt a sudden wave of fear, before he considered that it was daft to be scared of dying when, in actual fact, he'd been dead for nigh on forty years.
He glanced up at the building itself, at the familiar paintwork that covered the wall, the letters as grubby as the day he'd first laid eyes on them. The Railway Arms, he thought, how very fitting. As long as he didn't have to ride any trains of course – the downside of going to the pub meant he hadn't been able to bring his new Chevrolet Caprice along with him – something about stipulations and regulations that had flown over his head, along with most of the other mumbo-jumbo the Commissioner had spouted at him- and he shuddered to think what the new DCI would do to the poor thing, but that didn't mean he'd demean himself by using public transport any time soon, heavenly or otherwise.
He kept his eyes locked on the lettering for several more minutes, before pulling them away, and looking instead at the door in front of him. Now that he looked closely, he could see that, behind the frosted glass, there appeared to be light, and in the background it sounded as though music were playing, though he couldn't hazard a guess as to the name of the song itself. There were no other noises, but then, he supposed, it was not a traditional pub, so the usual lay-abouts and drunks –of which he was usually one!- were probably chucking their guts up in a different watering hole this evening. With a deep breath to calm his nerves, and one last glance around him, he opened the door and stepped inside.
His initial reaction was one of surprise; surprise, to find his feet cushioned by a soft, downy carpet of deep red… This best not be a United pub, he thought to himself, or I'll be in and out quicker than an old man's todger! He let his gaze travel upwards, taking in the space before him, and he frowned, struck by the familiarity of the place. The room was set up like a restaurant on this side, with small tables dressed with candles and flowers, and with booths set against brick-orange walls, covered in numerous paintings that seemed familiar and yet completely insignificant. Beyond this, there was an arch, and past the arch he could make out the polished oak of a saloon bar, behind which stood a familiar man, with dark skin and dreadlocked hair, cleaning a glass with a tea towel and smiling a white, toothy grin at him. Gene headed over, frowning slightly as he attempted to understand what on earth was going on, his legs moving slowly, and yet eating up the surprisingly small space between himself and the bar more quickly than he could have anticipated.
"Welcome," Nelson grinned, an all-out smile on his features as he nodded behind him to the wide expanse of spirits, liqueurs and bottles of plonk gathered for perusal. "What can I get yer, mon brav?"
Gene placed his hands on the bar, bracing his shoulders momentarily as he considered his surroundings, then nodded. "Pint o' bitter an' a whiskey chaser," he answered. "An' if heaven's a bloody pub, it better be a ruddy nice one too!" He looked around again, a frown upon his features as he added, "is it always this dead in 'ere?"
Nelson's eyebrows raised, apparently amused by the irony as he placed a freshly pulled pint in front of Gene, and followed it up with a tumbler of whiskey, from a bottle Gene had never seen before. No surprises there, he thought, taking a swig of the beer and enjoying the coolness of it as it slipped down his throat.
"Not always, Mister Hunt," Nelson said, his accent still in place as he leaned forwards almost conspiratorially. "But most people like a drink before they pass through…" He nodded towards a door, which Gene had previously assumed to be leading towards the toilets.
"What, alone?" There was indignation in his voice, and Nelson chuckled at him, as he had done many times over the years.
"I can open up for you, if you'd like?" Nelson's eyes seemed all-knowing, more so than they had ever done before, and Gene frowned.
"Open up? I don't want no random faggot's an' 'airy fairies 'anging around the place if that's what you're talking about!" He reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette, noting that there were only three left. He considered this for just a moment, before lighting it up, a plume of smoke issuing from the end as he shook his head again.
"You know, Guv, those things'll kill you!" The familiar voice, sounding from just behind Gene, caused him to choke on the cigarette fumes, spluttering and gasping as he turned around.
For a moment, he didn't quite believe his eyes; stood there, in the black leather jacket, the poncy button up shirt that he never did all the way up, and the brown drainpipe trousers that ought to have been illegal for anyone but a woman, was Sam Tyler. Sam was smiling, that cocky, knowing smile that had somehow had the ability to piss off and amuse Gene all at once, and holding a Party Seven in his hands.
"They'll be 'ard pushed since I'm dead as a dodo in a poultry shop!" Gene retorted out of habit, in a vague attempt to recollect his senses and come to terms with the bizarre encounter.
Sam smirked, walking forwards and putting the tin on the bar with a nod to Nelson. "Think I owe the Guv a drink, Nelson!" He said.
"Think you owe me more than bloody one yer cheeky git!"
Sam laughed, shaking his head in amusement as he held out a hand in greeting; Gene met his eyes, seeing the friendship and the loyalty that had brought them just outside these doors what felt like so long ago, and the tension that had carried over the threshold with him disappeared. With one gloved hand, he returned Sam's grip, just as his DI smiled at him, his eyes full of warmth as he spoke. "Welcome to The Railway Arms, Guv," Sam's voice was soft and gentle before he added, "or, as we like to call it, the big boozer in the sky!"
Gene frowned, eyebrows knitting together as he glanced at Nelson in surprise. "We?"
"Well you didn't expect me to let him alone in the afterlife, did you Guv, with all these gorgeous women running about?" Annie's voice was as soft and light as ever, and Gene spun around to meet her, shock replaced with a flirtatious smirk as he looked her up and down.
"Bloody 'ell Flashknickers," he grinned, nodding approvingly at her tight skirt and jumper. "I always said our Sammy was punching above 'is weight!"
Annie's tinkling laugh was a balm to the ears, and as she slipped over to the bar, pressing a swift, welcoming kiss to Gene's cheek, before slipping comfortably into the circle of Sam's arms, Gene felt warmth spread through him, reaching to his fingers and toes as the familiar sight filled his vision. He'd never admit it to Tyler, or anybody else for that matter, but in a sudden flash, he realised just how much he had missed them. After taking a moment to savour the fierce joy rushing through him, and making sure to compose his features into his familiarly sulky pout, he nodded to the Party Seven waiting patiently on the bar.
"You gunna open that then Sammy boy, or am I gunna spend the afterlife in a state of extended thirst?"
"Can't 'ave a party seven without seven, Guv," Chris's voice was as matter of fact and light as ever, filled with a certainty of cause, followed almost immediately by, "that's how it goes, ain't it?"
Before Gene had even managed to turn around, he heard a familiar simpering voice reply, "I don't think so, baby!" and turned to find the couple standing in front of him, arms around one another's waists. Behind them, sporting his trademark turtleneck jumper, Gene was certain he saw Ray mouthing the word 'twonks'.
"Where the bloody 'ell are you all coming from?" Gene demanded, looking at the floor and the walls and half expecting a trap door or a tunnel to suddenly appear in front of him. "I already got rid of you miserable buggers once! I thought dying was meant to be peaceful!" Now, all of a sudden, the saloon bar seemed filled with faces, faces that Gene thought he had forgotten, but that came to mind as easily as if he had seen them yesterday. There was Lewis, and Alice, and Jack, and numerous other young faces, all gathered around one table with a drink in their hands, raising a glass to him with smiles on their faces. There was Phyllis, still big, still sporting that horrendous woolly jumper that made Gene want to strangle her! There was Poirot, the most recent to leave Gene's London team, smoking quietly and sedately in the corner as he chatted to none other than DCI Litton, whose tribunal had been waylaid after Keats' disappearance, and who, in the hope of never seeing his face again, Gene had taken to The Railway Arms.
"If this is heaven," Gene asked coarsely, "then why the bloody hell can I smell Paco Rabanne with a hint of nancy?"
Litton, it seemed, chose not to respond, simply sending a begrudgingly respectful nod in Gene's direction, before turning his body to face as far away as possible. Gene grunted his approval, and turned back to Ray, whose grin was as bright as the stars he had just been observing.
"Wait 'til you see the tits on some o' these birds, Guv," he grinned, waving his cigarette in the direction of the room at large. "Proper pair-sonality on the red-head over there!" He appeared to be groping thin air in an attempt to demonstrate just how fantastic the said breasts were, and Gene smiled half-heartedly as he held out a hand.
"Guessin' the afterlife agrees with you then, Raymondo?" he asked, shaking the other man's hand with a smirk.
Ray grinned almost guiltily. "Don't get me wrong Guv, I miss it out there, but 'ave you seen the tits on WPC Preet? It's like living in a porno film!"
Gene nodded half-heartedly, his eyes scanning the familiar faces, accepting handshakes and gruff murmurs of appreciation, offers of drinks – which, it turned out, cost nothing in the first place – and reminiscence of old times. Gene listened and responded in his usual gruff manner, but the entire time, one eye was peeled, searching for the one face that seemed to evade him.
"Are we cracking open this Party Seven or what, Guv?" Sam's voice broke through the reverie of thought that seemed to have consumed Gene's mind, and he turned back to the bar, his features schooled into an expression of approval, whilst in actual fact, his stomach seemed to have twisted itself so tightly he felt nauseous.
"Boss, what about-?" Chris was cut off mid-sentence as Sam produced a chisel and a hammer, as if from nowhere, and handed them both to Gene.
"Fancy doing the honours, Guv?" He asked, grinning.
Gene, though still put out, smiled to himself. "Can't let you get yer nancy fingers on it, Tyler," he answered, aligning the chisel firmly. "Won't be anythin' left to drink!" With a nod to Annie he added, "get yer arse in the spray, Cartwright, an' we'll make this a real party!"
Ray guffawed, Chris chuckled, and Shaz looked shocked; Sam and Annie simply raised their eyebrows, a simultaneous movement that made Gene roll his eyes. "So much for bloody heaven!" He muttered, and brought the hammer down with a swift strike.
It was a few hours later – or maybe it was minutes? There didn't seem to be any method of timekeeping - and even though Gene thought he had had the best part of eight pints, he felt surprisingly clear-headed, though he could not say the same for Chris and Ray, who appeared to be equally inebriated, as Ray leered drunkenly at several of the WPC's chatting at the bar, and Chris murmured drunken declarations of love in an embarrassed but clearly pleased Shaz's ear. Sam was tipsily flirting with Annie, and Gene felt no inclination to disturb them.
In fact, he felt a sudden desire to sit down, and, without a word to the others, who had, until now, kept him thoroughly entertained, he slipped through the mass of police officers, postponing several drinks offers and attempting to avoid being caught up in conversation with anyone, until finally he stepped out of the bar and into the dining area that had so intrigued him earlier. The room was softly lit now, with candles flickering timelessly on each table, and the din of the next room seemed to fade slowly away, until it was nothing more than a soft rumble in the background. He breathed a sigh of relief, heading automatically for the corner table, only to stop dead in his tracks, finding it already occupied, by none other than Alex Drake.
She had decided, it seemed, to revert back to curly hair, framing her delicate, pale face with soft tendrils of brown. Her eyes were subtly highlighted, her makeup, whatever it was, making the hazel of her eyes look almost gold, deep and rich, and filled with an emotion that caused Gene's stomach to flip and twist. Her lips were a deep red, and his eyes were drawn to them immediately, his mind suddenly bursting with the memory of their soft warmth pressed against his own, and the gentle touch of her soft hands on his cheek… His gut wrenched, and once again he was forced to wonder what on earth had possessed him to let her go.
She stood up slowly, stepping around the table and holding her hands almost nervously at her waist. Gene's eyes were drawn to the familiar curves, the shape of her ass, the gentle roundness of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist, all wrapped in a sensual black dress that flattered every contour of her slim body, paired with red accessories that matched her lips and caused his mouth to dry up. He inwardly berated his own stupidity, seized with an overwhelming desire to go back to that moment outside and change his mind…
"Bloody 'ell Bols," he said instead, "if I'd known you were gunna be dressin' ter the nines, I'd 'ave come 'ere sooner!"
"I was beginning to wonder if you ever would," she admitted almost shyly, her familiar smile breaking across her face, flashing brilliantly white teeth that sparkled almost as brightly as her eyes.
Gene swallowed slightly, his hand flying up to play with his hair before he muttered, almost embarrassed, "I- I thought yer'd given it a miss, if I'm honest, Bolly."
Alex smiled almost indulgently at him, "no, Gene, I wouldn't have missed this," she said softly.
"What is 'this' exactly?" he asked, glancing around the trattoria again and frowning slightly. "Looks bloody familiar, but -!"
"It's Luigi's," she laughed, smiling. "This is your party; your pub."
"'ey?" He frowned, glancing back to Alex. "My pub?"
"When I got here, it looked like TJ'S; I had my first drink there… First kiss, too, as a matter of fact!" She smiled at him, seeing his eyebrows fly up into his hairline as she went on. "For Shaz it was a particularly distasteful nightclub, and for Sam and the others, I think it was your Railway Arms, back in Manchester; we thought that's what you'd pick, too!"
"I didn't pick anything Bols," Gene argued, shaking his head; "if I never see another steak an' chips pizza as long as I'm dead, I'll be bloody relieved!"
Alex laughed, a tinkling warm sound that sent shivers of delight down Gene's spine. "Well, I'm sure there'll be something more to your tastes on the menu if you're hungry."
"You askin' me on another date, Bollykecks?" He queried, one eyebrow raised as she indicated the chair nearest to the wall. He didn't protest though, and slid into the now understandably familiar seat with ease, loosening his tie as he went.
"Actually, I wasn't asking," she informed him, lowering herself elegantly into the chair opposite and folding her legs across one another with apparent ease. Gene made a noise in his throat, unsure whether it was approval or amusement, but smirking as he picked up the red leather menu on the table.
"So Gene," she was leaning forward, her empty plate pushed to one side as she rested her chin on her hand, running the fingers of her other hand around the glass of white wine before her, her eyes locked on his with a fascination and warmth that unnerved him. "Did you miss me?"
He blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation – thus far it had been small talk, exchanging stories, reminiscing, neither of them referring to any of the unanswered questions he was sure they both had. His own posture was mirroring hers, and his eyes were soft as he considered her for a moment – he took in the smirk playing at the corner of her lips, the almost knowing questioning tilt of her head, and the elegant fingers tracing so delicately around the fragile glass. He thought about all that she had ever been to him – a pain in the arse, mostly, he thought, but a damned good copper, and a more than adequate drinking partner. She'd been smart, frustrating and beautiful all at once, with a wicked sense of humour and an arse to rival Brit Eckland… He'd even come to appreciate her outright disagreement with everything he said, in a bizarrely warped sort of way.
And he'd let her go; until this evening, he had tried to forget just how much it had cost him, but staring into her eyes in this moment, he recalled the torment that had thrummed within every fibre of his being, the cold trickle of blood through his veins as he had watched her step over that threshold, as his entire world had collapsed… He'd worked so hard to forget her, and at times, he had almost believed he could do it… But then he'd be reminded of her, through the smell of leather, or the taste of champagne, or a particularly nice arse in the street, and he'd realise it all over again with a sudden rush of self-loathing, and his only comfort was to tell himself that she would be better off there, that she'd be happy…
"Like a hole in the head, Bolly," he answered drily, taking a swig of wine. Alex smiled in answer, lifting her own glass delicately to her lips.
"Well, we both know what that feels like, don't we Guv?" Her voice was soft, playful, but he could tell that she was beginning to broach the as yet unspoken subject of their mutual demise – a bullet through the brain, which had brought them together in this bizarre and abnormal world of anomalies and confusion.
"See your warped sense of humours still intact," he answered, smirking slightly.
"Well, I've had a lot of time to come to terms with it," Alex replied, her voice slightly quieter, more loaded. He knew what she meant, and he grimaced, hearing the silent question in her voice.
"You couldn't 'ave stayed, Alex," he told her, feeling the familiar pain in his gut as it twisted with guilt. "Not how it works, see…"
"You stayed," she told him softly.
"Yeah, well what a right barrel of laughs that turned out to be!"
"It could have been," she murmured, "if I'd been there, we could have been-!"
"We already were, Bolly," he told her, meeting her eyes with resolution in his own. "We were good, Bols; we were bloody fantastic – but you couldn't 'ave stayed."
"Why not?" She asked softly, the question burning on her lips and insistent in her eyes. "Why did I have to leave? I wasn't ready, Gene."
"Nor was I, Alex." His eyes were dark with meaning, bright blue and striking as she met his eyes, and Gene thought he heard a hitch of her breath before she carried on.
"So why couldn't I stay?" She whispered, and Gene was aware that her hand wasn't on her glass anymore, but in the middle of the table, almost begging to be held… He ignored it, swallowing hard.
"Thought you'd be happier 'ere," he shrugged, dropping his gaze from hers, but berating himself a moment later as he saw her hand, still resting on the table, fingers slightly extending, as though waiting to allow something into their grasp. With a mental jerk, he pulled his eyes back up to hers, seeing the sad complacency in their depths as she shook her head.
"I rather missed you, Gene," she said it so softly, he barely heard the words, but he felt their meaning as it exploded around him, bathing him in a warm glow.
"Yeah," he nodded shortly, suddenly finding the courage to cover her hand with his own, electricity thrumming through him at the feeling of her warm, soft skin, "likewise, Bollykecks."
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Mage of the Heart