TITLE: "Random Acts"
FANDOM: Ashes to Ashes
GENRE: Angst/Drama
PAIRING: Gene/Alex-ish
SPOILERS: Set loosely in Series 2, after Episode 5.
RATING: M for strong violence, adult themes, and language
FEEDBACK: Positive feedback is always nice. However, given the nature of the fic, I ask that if you have criticisms or comments about the subject matter, please PM me.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.

**WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG NON-CONSENSUAL THEMES.**

A/N: For a variety of reasons, I really, really dislike non-con fics as a rule. However, this was something I wanted to write on a personal level to see if I could work past it and write the subject matter and its aftermath in a sensitive way. I don't know if I've succeeded, but I have tried. It's graphic, but I felt like it needed to be, and as far as the story goes, the violence itself isn't as much the focus as the aftermath is. This story isn't for everyone. It is truly not my intention to upset anyone, so if you're offended or disturbed by non-con fics, PLEASE READ NO FURTHER!!

xxXXxx

He'd been eyeing her all morning. She'd been filling out some interminable report for what seemed like hours, wishing with every stroke of her pen for online forms. Every time she raised her head from her papers, she could see him in his office, feet on desk, looking at her through narrowed eyes. He'd quickly look away then, as if he hadn't been looking at her at all, but when she lowered her head back to her desk, she could feel his gaze back on her.

When she finally headed into the break room, he followed on her heels so quickly, she knew it couldn't be coincidental. He mumbled something unintelligible to her as he entered and tried to look nonchalant rummaging through the cupboards for a tea bag.

She waited for him to speak, and finally, he broke the silence. "So. This Boris bloke."

"What about him?"

"I take it you gave him the old heave-ho the other night."

She sighed and sipped at her tea before speaking. "Something like that. Yes."

He was silent for a moment and turned, leaning with his hips against the counter, arms across his chest. He was wearing a new suit, she noticed. The jacket was cut perfectly through the shoulders, and the trousers broke just right against the top of his boots.

God, he's handsome, she thought and then shook it loose from her head with a slight toss of her hair.

She watched his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard. He drummed his fingers against the counter, looked away, back at her again. "As I recall, DI Drake, you still owe me dinner."

Dinner. She blinked. He couldn't mean that dinner, their aborted date before her parents had died. Surely not. It was months ago, and he hadn't showed her the slightest bit of interest since. They'd become friends, good friends, in the time since, but romantically, things seemed to have died on the vine. He'd paid more attention to that pregnant reporter who'd come through the month or so before.

"We did have dinner, don't you remember? Pineapple rings. Sea scallops." She twinkled up at him. "Rump."

She expected him to toss back some smart comment, but he said nothing, and the corners of his mouth tugged down slightly. "I mean a proper dinner. Not at Luigi's. Someplace they don't let the riff raff in."

"Oh," she said, unable to speak. "All right."

"I thought that new place. What's it called? That poncey French place. Chez Nous."

Her jaw dropped. Chez Nous had opened a month or so before and had got fabulous reviews. She knew the young chef would go on to have his own cooking programme on ITV in about fifteen years and a line of sauces on the shelves of every Tesco in Britain.

"Oh, Gene. Isn't that a little pricey? Are you sure you can afford it?" It was a stupid thing to say, and she immediately regretted it.

He looked away, and she could tell she'd insulted him. "Well, I'm not on the bloody dole!"

"No, I didn't mean…I just…" She sighed, gave up. "I think Chez Nous would be lovely."

"Right. Well. Good. Chez Nous it is. Eight o'clock. Tonight. Your place. I'll pick you up."

"Good."

"Good. RIght."

He turned to leave without ever bothering to make his tea.

"What, no comment?" she called after him, and he turned to her in the doorway of the break room. She smiled up into his face with a raised eyebrow. "You're not going to tell me to 'wear something slutty' this time?"

He held her gaze for a long time before speaking. His voice was low and silken. "No. I'm not."

And then he swept out, leaving her sitting there feeling swimmy-headed and slightly flushed.

xxXXxx

It was only when she looked back on her bed that she realised she'd changed her outfit five times. Six if you counted the thing with pleats she tried on twice before deciding it made her look like a vicar's wife at a lawn fete.

She finally picked the electric blue thing. It was soft, comfortable, and clingy in just the right places. Yes, she thought as she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Perfect. And it was then she realised how much that mattered to her, how important this evening was.

She reckoned she'd always found him attractive, even the way Sam had described him, with that lived-in, rough handsomeness and gruff charm. But she'd been too focused on getting home to Molly in those first weeks to think of him in more than a passing way.

Besides, she hadn't thought him real then. He was a construct. A figment. You can't love a figment.

But now, months later, 1982 had begun to seem more real to her than her other life. The pull of it was too strong, and with it, the pull of Gene, who was alive and human and ridiculously, absurdly sexy.

There was more, though, and their relationship had deepened in the months she'd been here. She knew from the way he looked at her that he found her attractive, but he admired and respected her, as well, and not in that grudging way Ray had. They were friends, colleagues, but he saw and appreciated her as a woman, too. She wasn't sure she could have found that kind of relationship in 2008, let alone 1982.

If this was real, if this was to be the way she'd spend the rest of her days, then the thought of spending them with Gene had become very appealing.

She looked over at her bed to the stack of dresses and skirts. Must put those away before I leave. Don't want Gene to come back to that.

She could feel herself blush, even here alone in her flat, that she was actually entertaining the thought of inviting him back here, to her bedroom.

Not on the first date, Alex.

And why not?

She glanced down at her watch. He'd be here soon, and she was half-dressed. Earrings, shoes. Last coat of lipstick. She rummaged in her knicker drawer for a pair of black stockings and tried to pull them on one-handed while fishing through a tangle of necklaces for her favourite earrings with the other.

"Oh, bugger," she said under her breath. She had managed to pull the one leg on up to her knee before noticing the long, jagged ladder up the front. "Bugger bugger."

It was her last pair, and she quickly glanced down at her watch again. Ten minutes before eight. He'd be late, but just late enough to keep her waiting. She had fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe. Enough time to pop round the corner for a new pair. She grabbed her handbag and her cardi from the hook by the door and headed downstairs.

It was already dark this time of year. She stepped outside into the night air, ready to turn the corner toward the Boots on the other end of the street. She stopped when she saw the group of young men on the corner. Pushing, smoking, laughing. Skinheads. Fred Perry shirts, braces, cuffed jeans, Doc Martens. They were drunk, most likely, looking for trouble.

She turned her head toward the passageway that cut through to the next street over. It was dark, lined with rubbish bins and cardboard boxes from the shops that backed onto it, but she could make out the bright, familiar "BOOTS" sign at the other end. She turned back to the skinheads. They had seen her now. One of them was pointing at her, whistling, and another let out a low, menacing laugh. Best to avoid them. She could take a shortcut and be there and back in no time.

She pulled her cardi a little tighter around her and headed into the darkened alley. Most of the shops were closed this time of night, but there was a light from one of the restaurants bleeding out onto the alley. The back door opened, and familiar scents wafted past. A man shuffled out with a bag and dropped it into the rubbish bin. Mr. Singh, he was called. They had all stumbled in there drunkenly in the middle of the night more than once for a curry when even Luigi had refused to serve them. She smiled at him, and he nodded at her in recognition before shuffling back inside. The screen door thumped shut behind him, and she was alone again.

Gene, she said to herself and then repeated it out loud. "Gene." The sound of his name made her smile now, and she felt warm and giddy. You have a date with Gene Hunt.

It was the last thing she remembered thinking before the moment that would always divide her life here into broken two parts.

There was a hand, coming from behind, grabbing her around the middle and pinning her arms to her side. Another hand clamped across her mouth, just as she let out a muffled scream. Her handbag flew out of her hand, and she could hear the loose change scattering and bouncing across the alley.

Stay calm, Alex, stay calm. Training…she'd been trained for this. Remember this. Remember everything.

His thick hand was damp with sweat, and he clamped it tighter against her nose and mouth. Her lungs burned as she struggled for air.

She could feel his hot, sour breath against her ear as he leaned forward. "Do what I say, and you won't get hurt."

The voice. The accent. Northern. Young. Remember it.

"Move," he said and pushed her along the alley toward a passage between two of the buildings. It was pitch black, a dead-end, no way out.

Her heart pounded. Oh, God. No. Stay calm. Stay calm.

He stumbled in the darkness, and his grip around her waist loosened as he tried to regain his balance. She saw a chance then, a small opening. With a free hard, she tried to pry his arm from around her waist.

But he was too strong. He spun her around and landed two hard blows across her face. She could feel his sovereign ring cut into her lip, and her mouth filled with the bright, coppery taste of blood. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Don't try that again. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?"

He loosened the grip on her mouth, and she gulped in chestful of air. "Yes, yes," she said in thin, wavering voice not her own. "Please…please don't do this."

He answered by slamming her head back onto the wall behind her once, then twice, hard, so stars danced in her field of vision, and she could feel her legs begin to give out from under her. She slid down the wall, and he pushed her the rest of the way down onto the hard ground.

She was aware of something cold and sharp against her throat then. A knife. He had a knife. "Oh, God..please, no don't," she said, the words sticking in her dry throat. There were his rough hands on her thighs. His thick hands with fat sausage fingers fumbling, pushing her dress up to her waist.

Close your eyes…just close your eyes. It's only your body, it's not you.

She could smell him as he bore down on her, a thick, rancid odor of stale sweat. A wave of nausea swept through her as he forced her knees apart and pushed himself roughly inside her. There was a searing pain, she let out an involuntary cry and he clamped his free hand back over her face.

And then it was as if she were watching herself from a distance. Dimly aware of the music and the smells from the curry shop. The noise from the street, his foul breath coming in rough, uneven grunts against her wet cheek before he spilled into her with a senseless, guttural moan.

He was gone then. She could just see his feet at the end of the passage as she lay there. He had retrieved her bag from the ground, and she could hear things being tossed back down. Lipstick case, keys, the sound of her compact mirror shattering.

There was a satisfied grunt as he tucked her wallet in his back pocket. She could hear the sound of receding footfall, and then there was silence.

xxXXxx

Half past sodding eight.

He was late, but not by that much. Not so much that she should refuse to come out of her flat. He had knocked for five minutes before giving up and going down to Luigi's to try and ring her with no luck. Now he stood pacing on the pavement outside, wondering if he'd got the time and date wrong.

"Where is that bloody woman?" he said to no one in particular. There was a pack of skinheads he'd told to clear off twenty minutes ago, but now the street was dark and empty.

"Sod it," he muttered before heading back to the light and warmth inside. He'd have a beer and head home. He was stupid to think this would work, anyway.

"Mr. Hunt!" Luigi said as he came through the door with a scowl. "I thought you had an assegnazione with the lovely lady this evening."

Gene glowered at him as he hoisted himself onto a barstool. "Well, the lovely lady is late."

"Women. Women are always late." He shook his head and let out a melodramatic sigh. "Perhaps you have found one who is worth the wait, Signore Hunt?"

Gene didn't answer but emptied half a glass of beer in one swallow. He could see Chris and Shaz in the corner. Their heads were pressed together, her fingers laced with his. She was laughing at something he said, and he leaned in to kiss her. Ray was across the bar from him, having not a small amount of success trying to pull some blonde tart from Lowestoft.

He drained the rest of his glass and slid it across the bar for a refill.

"Another, Signore Hunt?"

Gene waited a moment before putting his palm across the top of his empty glass. "No. Thanks, Luigi." His voice was soft and slightly wounded.

She'll be here.

The door opened, and a gust of chill air swept in. Gene turned expectantly toward the door, thinking, hoping it was Alex, but it was just a dark man wearing a kitchen apron underneath his jacket. There was something familiar about him, and Gene frowned trying to place the face.

Singh. It was Singh, the bloke from the curry place round the corner. The man frowned back at Gene and took a halting step inside. He was holding something in each hand. In his right hand was a torch, Gene could see. In the other, something he couldn't quite make out. Small, brown.

He knew. With a policeman's instinct, he knew. Something was wrong.

"Hunt…it's Inspector Hunt, is it not?" the man said as he crossed the restaurant to where Gene was sitting.

"Who wants to know?"

The man licked his lips, unsure how to continue. "The lady detective. The one I have seen you with…"

"What about her?" Gene slid from the stool. His heart had already begun to drum.

"I saw her tonight. In the alley behind my shop. When I came back out a few minutes later, she was gone, but I saw this."

Mr. Singh raised his left arm, and Gene recognised it in a terrible instant. Alex's handbag. Empty, torn strap.

Gene's face drained. "Where'd you get this?"

The man's eyes widened at the force of Gene's voice. "I – I –"

"Where did you find it!? Show me!" he bellowed. Heads turned in his direction, but Gene was already headed outside, dragging Mr. Singh behind him.

"Show me where you found this." He had Singh by the sleeve of his jacket, and he charged into the street. A cab laid on the horn and slammed on brakes.

Chris, Ray, and Shaz had followed them out and trailed behind. "What's wrong, Guv? Ray asked, stubbing out his fag on the sidewalk.

"It's DI Drake. She could be hurt."

Mr. Singh led them into the alley behind the row of shops and pointed with a quivering finger to the spot where he'd retrieved the handbag. There was a handful of coins on the ground at his feet. Some distance away were her keys and a smashed tube of lipstick. "Here! It was here, Inspector Hunt! That is all I know!"

"ALEX!" Gene leaned his head back and roared, but there was no response. He turned to the others. "Right. Ray. Go back up to her flat. Get the keys from Luigi. Break down the door if you have to. Shaz…take Mr. Singh's torch. She might…"

But he couldn't say anything more. He walked ahead of them into the dark, not wanting them to see the way his hands shook. He took a long, steadying breath in.

And then there was a sound, thin and strained. He stopped, tilted his head to make sure he had heard it. "ALEX!" But there was nothing. "Chris!" He strode down the alley. "Go back to Luigi's. You'll need to call for forensics…"

"Guv…"

"Then take our friend here back and get a…"

"Guv!"

"What is it, Shaz?" he barked and turned to her, hands on hips. She was shining the torch into the dark, narrow passage running between two of the buildings that backed onto the alley.

There was a movement, and in the dim light, he could just make it out. Alex sat there, back against the wall, knees pulled tight to chest, staring at a space on the opposite wall. A shaft of light from Shaz's torch fell across her face, and she slowly turned toward them, one eye swollen shut.

"Jesus Christ…" he said, his lungs deflating in sudden fear. He stumbled down the passage towards her.

She looked at them unseeingly for a moment before she cried out, and her body began to pitch with uncontrollable sobs.

END CHAPTER ONE

A/N: The worst part for Alex is over, I promise. The next few chapters will be dark, but the ending for Alex and Gene will ultimately be positive and hopeful.