DISCLAIMER - I do not own Ashes to Ashes or Fairytale of New York by The Pogues.

Hello, lovely readers! I decided to do a bit of a Christmassy themed story – I'm probably extremely unoriginal with my idea, but I've always wanted to do an Ashes fic based upon The Pogues' 'Fairytale of New York' – the thought of Alex and Gene howling away together in a bar is enough to make anyone want to write it! However, this is going to be a little angsty (if you've listened to the lyrics, you'll mostly understand haha) but I can assure you that there is Christmas cheer in there somewhere. This is not explicitly a songfic, but is based upon the story of the song – this will makes sense (hopefully) regardless of whether you know the song or not. I really hope you enjoy it.

MissLP x

Christmas Eve, 1987.

The atmosphere was shady, with the soft ribbons of smoke dancing through the dim lights as the hubbub of gushing beer, clinking glasses and the notes of deep, roaring laughter and conversation echoed softly around the pub. To anyone, you'd assume the noise would penetrate any conversation – men's voices deeply resonated with the raucous punchlines of jokes and the guffaws at the expense of another. The chink of glasses filled with alcohol was unrelenting – as was, and still is, customary in any normal British pub – and decorated the lower pitches of speech with momentary bell-like chimes. A normal person would take this in their stride; it is common for a pub, after all. So common, in fact, that you'd barely take notice of the solitary figure hidden away around the side of the bar, nursing both a beer and a scotch simultaneously.

Maybe he was waiting for someone – a fair assumption, you'd say, covering the issue of the two drinks. But both glasses were verging on empty. Ah, a clue. Depression, maybe? No...surely he wouldn't be out in such a social atmosphere if he had depression. Alcoholism? Well, that seemed like a given. He certainly seemed to be one of those stereotypical pub-goers, who'd get pissed with their mates, and eye up birds from across the room...and even get a cheeky fondle and a shag? Who knows. The one thing that stood out, though, was his reluctance to do anything but drink. He was oblivious to the rattle of conversations around him – he stared dead-straight into his drinks, as though he was trying to seek some sort of answers to his problems. He wore a black suit, with a white shirt unbuttoned at the top with a silk blue tie loosened around his neck – he'd come from work. High-up, you'd think, considering the suit and...the cowboy boots. Non-conformist, you could say – doesn't play by the rules. He must be a boss. He wore a pout of what could be described as distaste to accompany the dull stare of his sapphire eyes. Bad day? Surely not – not on Christmas Eve! You'd be with family and friends on- ah, another clue, we find. He was alone. No family, no friends? He obviously had colleagues, but, from what you and I have established, it seemed that he was more of a boss figure...so maybe they were more separated in the ranks, as it were. Family, however, is another matter. No wife, no kids, or so it looked like. Divorced? Widowed? No, you'd assume a widow would be comforting others as well as himself, as opposed to just solely him. The poor bastard certainly looked lonely, though, and it looked as though he had some problems. Oh, well. Whatever his problems were, they barely crossed the minds of the drinkers, as they slurred and staggered and stumbled their way through the Christmas Eve of 1987.

The last orders bell rang shrilly, breaking the man's reverie. It was the first time he looked up since he had sat down with his drinks. He quickly knocked back the remainders of his glasses, swiftly put on his overcoat, and walked out of the beckoning warmth of the pub and into the cold hostility of the ice and snow.

The Guardians' Inn. It was a popular little place. It was just around the corner from a police station.

The man trudged through the snow, turning brown with the dirt of the road. He grabbed a set of keys from his coat pocket. Instinctively, he turned the corner and headed towards the front of the police station – Fenchurch East. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of pillarbox red, racing down the road from which he had just turned. Suddenly he felt a sickening lurch to the stomach. Somebody had stolen his car.

He sprinted (or rather scampered) down the icy road, his mind racing viciously. Stupid fuckers. He reached the corner and desperately searched for any sight of his car. With the mellowing feeling of the alcohol taking effect, the man sighed heavily, and returned to the front of the station. A patch of ice had spread across the pavement, and in his daze, the man clumsily stumbled and fell over, the keys flying from his hand. Fuck, ow! Having hurt his knee slightly, the man got up slowly, grabbing his keys in the process.

Mercedes keys. There, in front of him, proudly stood the glimmering silver Mercedes.

Confusion hit him. He looked to his right, from where he had just come from. He swore to himself that he had seen a red car. I swear I had a red car. Sighing again, he rubbed his hand across his face in fatigue and climbed in the car, turned on the ignition and sped away from the station. He had only been travelling for a mere couple of seconds when he saw a swarm of people suddenly appeared from what looked like a restaurant. He slammed on the brakes, and looked into the rear view mirror of his car.

There was no-one there.

He reversed slowly, stopping just outside of where he had seen the group emerging. He climbed out of his car and cautiously made his way over to the set of steps leading down into a dilapidated, abandoned restaurant. A feeling of familiarity swept over him as he stopped at the front door. It was made of glass, with a deep red frame. His eyes were immediately drawn to the small crack level to his eye height. Bullet?

He shook off the thought. Carrying on with his impromptu investigation of the site, he cupped his hands onto the glass and peered in. Stupid idea, he thought. Too bloody dark.

However, his eyes were met with the warm glow of a busy restaurant. He heard raucous laughter and excited chatter. A short, plump man with a typically italian moustache bustled hurriedly behind the bar, producing beers and glasses of wine. At the bar was a woman. Tall, slim, curly brown hair. As he looked at her, the man hitched his breath as the same feeling of familiarity struck him dead between the eyes.

The woman turned towards the door, glass of wine in hand. A bright smile – a beautiful smile – spread across her face as she looked over at him. She waved excitedly.

'Come on, Guv! Join the party!'

He jumped back in surprise, flattening himself against the wall. He racked his brains furiously as he tried to place her in his mind. He returned to the door, peering in again.

The room was silent and dark.

'What the fuck?' The man muttered to himself in bewilderment, his eyes wide. Never mix wine and beer, Genie Boy. Bolly's wisdom.

He turned to climb the stairs, his head beginning to pound. As he took his car keys out, he froze in shock.

I didn't bloody drink wine and beer. I drank scotch and beer.

His eyed widened further.

Bolly's wisdom?

Fumbling with his keys, he quickly shoved them into the lock, clambering in as nausea began to settle in. It may be a good place here to quickly explain that this man wasn't typically one to 'clamber', or 'fumble'. You see, one could say that he was far more...majestic, if you will – proud, almost. Like a lion, leading his pride.

He sat back in his seat, breathing heavily in an attempt to compose himself. What the bloody hell is wrong with me? Must be the drink. After a couple of minutes of convincing himself that he wasn't actually going mad, he put the keys into the ignition and placed his hands onto the steering wheel, the four rings of the Audi logo glistening in the moonlight.

Before turning the keys to start the engine, the man paused as he looked straight ahead out of the windscreen. The same woman who had seen him in the bar was stood on the corner with a man who looked spectacularly like himself. They were looking intently at each other. Their mouths moved fractionally as they murmured something.

'Merry Christmas, Gene.'

The man in the car jumped as he heard the voice, as clear cut as diamond. As he continued to look at the pair, he found himself, with surprise, murmuring a reply.

'Merry Christmas, Alex.'

Again, with gaping eyes, he stared at himself and the woman. Simultaneously, their heads moved closer; their eyes closed as their lips connected softly. The man, still sat inside the car, felt a furious escalation of butterflies and heat surging through his body as he witnessed the sight. He scrambled out of his car to try and catch the woman and himself, but as he looked up, they had vanished. What the bloody hell? Who was Alex? Who were those people in the bar?

Exhaling heavily, he returned to his car, started the engine and roared down the street, the promise of a scotch and a bed awaiting him. Lord knew he need it.

As the tyres squealed through the roads of London, Gene Hunt still hadn't realised that he had gotten into an Audi Quattro.

To be continued.