A/N Quick drabble / one shot, set after episode six.
A/N2 For 'M', who doesn't quite understand but is always understanding.
The Heaviest Weight
Maybe it was because the bullet, the one thing that had kept her on a path as straight and as determined as its own journey, had been removed that she'd finally dared to wander down a road that she'd always carefully avoided. Falling into bed with Gene Hunt had never been at the top of her 'to do' list. He was a distracting temptation and she'd never have been able to live with herself if giving in to him had somehow kept her from her other life, had kept her from her daughter. But she'd felt different, felt differently, almost as soon as the surgeon had extracted the small lump of metal that had been lodged in her head; she'd felt as if a weight, one that was so much larger than the sum of its parts, had been lifted from her. There was no longer any pressure, either inside her head or on her to get home, there was no longer any reason to hold back. She had fought and she had won; she was in a hospital, the operation had been a complete success and Molly was waiting for her to wake up. She was finally going home and, just as importantly, she had won her release without sacrificing either her principles or the people around her despite the warnings of others. In your face, Martin Freaky Summers. For the first time in her life - in either of her lives - she'd felt, and still did feel, completely free. And liberation was exhilarating; it was worth celebrating.
She sighed into her pillow, the faint sluggishness clouding her thoughts no doubt a result of one of her other indulgences from the previous night. Maybe it had been the champagne, which had gone straight to her head, all those bubbles adding to her overwhelming joy - and at the same time taking away some of her inhibitions - that had finally made her succumb to her attraction towards her DCI. After all, she'd known she was on her way home the night before last and all she'd done then was write a series of letters to the people she knew she was going to miss - one person in particular with an intensity that she would never be able to explain to anyone else. Letters that had been written in the hope, rather than the belief, that this world would carry on with out her. Letters that had been opened as soon as her back had been turned, something she really should have foreseen. Their reactions had been more predictable, however - all except for Gene's. His had been the only letter to remain sealed. She'd inspected the envelope closely but it had looked exactly like it had when she'd handed it over to him, the only difference being the faint odour of cigarette smoke it had acquired whilst in his possession.
Maybe it had been Gene himself, all cool and collected, nonchalantly sitting there at their table in Luigi's as if her impending departure meant nothing to him, that had made her finally show her hand. A begrudging admission that he would miss her if she left was all she had received when she'd pushed him on the subject of her departure; as far as Gene Hunt was concerned she still wasn't going anywhere without his say so. And those three words had meant the world to her, even if they had been uttered only to shut her up, because just as she had gradually come to accept her own growing attraction towards him she had become less sure of his feelings towards her. Their relationship had changed markedly over the last year and in some ways she missed the frisson that had marked their relationship during her first few months here, a tension fired up by her unwillingness to accept him as anything other than a construct and an infuriating one at that. But in other ways she was glad that it had dissipated somewhat because what had been left in its wake was just as alluring. There was more to Gene than first met the eye and discovering that other side to him - to get close enough to be able to see the good, kind decent man beneath the gruff exterior - had only made him harder to resist.
A slight change to the rhythmic snoring behind her, accompanied by a shift in position that pushed him closer to her, brought a warm smile to her lips and as his hand snaked over her waist she caught it in her own, sliding her fingers between his. Gene gripped her fingers weakly in response before falling back into contented sleep with an ease that had escaped her so far. Maybe it had been the thought of going home without ever having him, even just for one night, and then having to live with the empty regret of that decision for the rest of her life, that had made her invite him upstairs to her flat. She knew she'd miss him, with or without the sex, but there was no longer any reason to hold back. If anything, it was easier knowing that she didn't have long left in this world; that way she couldn't possibly get too attached, she couldn't possibly fall deeply enough, to make leaving more difficult than it should be - nor would it give either of them enough time to screw things up.
She smiled wider into her pillow. Maybe it was because of all the aforementioned reasons - combining to make one magical formula - that she finally had him here in her bed. But whatever the reason she was grateful that for once she hadn't resisted, that she hadn't been bogged down with other concerns, that she hadn't overanalysed the situation and let it pass her by. Last night had not been a disappointment; it turned out that he hadn't been exaggerating about being bigger in every department or about his legendary prowess in bed. And if she now had only perhaps days - and nights - left in this world she knew exactly how she wanted to spend them and with whom.
With sleep still eluding her, and that sweet thought quickly taking root in her head, she finally opened her eyes to greet what could possibly be her last day in this world, a part of her guiltily hoping that it wouldn't be over quite as quickly. With a few blinks the blurry unfamiliar object in her immediate line of sight gradually came into focus and her stomach quickly started to sour. Despite the warmth of the body pressed against her back, and the warm hand entwined with her own, she suddenly felt cold.
A single, once beautiful, blood red rose lay on top of the bedside cabinet, its delicate petals crushed and strewn beneath its prickly stem as if someone had stood there, right beside her as she'd slept, and destroyed the flower with their own hand. She felt that awful pressing weight resume its recently vacated position.