Sorry this note is so long. I usually never do this. I promise the notes will be much shorter in the future:
Those of you who have been following my fic One Second, please forgive me. This story demanded to be told NOW. My will was not my own.
It takes place after the events of FIVE, my completed Ashes to Ashes fan fiction. It's probably easiest to read FIVE first. One Second hasn't been abandoned in fact I'm almost done with the next chapter. It's not absolutely necessary to read One Second (such as it is) before reading this next one but it might help.
If you haven't read One Second it's important to know: In my world Alex Price moved to the US to work for the CIA as a counsellor when she was 23. She met and married David Drake there. They had Molly. Their marriage ended at some point. If you've seen the series you know the rest. In light of the new series this story is probably AU. (Unless I can read the minds of the makers of Ashes)
Thanks to Lucida Bright for the beta. You're a Goddess. Seriously. You really make me think and that's the best an aspiring writer can hope for from a beta reader.
Thanks to Lilgreenmomo for inspiring this story. Bollie is all yours. This is your birthday present! Happy Birthday- hope it's a great year for you.
Most of these characters don't belong to me. Just playing.
Forty Years in Space
His fingers fumble slightly against her spine as he buttons her into the black dress with patience entirely out of character. The silence in the room is almost tangible, heavy and dusty like cotton layers between breakables. Her hearing is fine, he simply has precious little to say to her and this too is uncharacteristic. The flirting has stopped and the arguing, the few words he does speak to her are painfully polite and carefully chosen. Two days it's been like this, two and a half. She thought it might get better after a while if she just ignored his mood and tried to go on as before. It's not better.
She should have asked Shaz to help her or Luigi's wife, anyone would be better than him. But he was at hand and so here he stands, stooped slightly, pushing tiny pearl button after tiny pearl button through the fragile loops with slow fingers. She should have worn something she could get into unaided but her wardrobe is still limited and her other black dress is inappropriately short and tight. She didn't think she'd be attending her parents' funeral for the second time in her life.
As he reaches the last few buttons his fingertips brush the nape of her neck and Alex can't help thinking for the hundredth time how silly and backwards this whole situation is. Two days ago they stood in this very room and she let Gene Hunt remove every article of her clothing with a deliberateness and intensity that excited and frightened her in equal amounts. Today, the day they lay Tim and Caroline Price into the ground, Gene is helping her into her dress with the same deliberateness but none of the passion.
"Perfect." There is a slight hesitance in his voice as he says that word, as if he was about to add something but changed his mind. His hand hovers near the small of her back and Alex closes her eyes and wills him to touch her again. To her embarrassment a small desperate sound escapes from her mouth and she turns to face him abruptly. Hunt looks surprised and a little worried; he grips her shoulders tightly with both his hands and then looks down at them in confusion as if he doesn't recognise his own fingers. She can't figure out what he's thinking and she has no more energy to ask him directly, to manipulate the situation, perhaps to press her lips to his and pick up where they left off two days ago. She isn't even sure she wants to do that anymore. In the last two days she's asked him if everything is okay so many times, even now those words are balanced on the tip of her tongue, poised, ready to slip out if she isn't vigilant. She's learned her lesson though. Ray was the last one who asked Hunt if anything was the matter; he'd shut up pretty quickly when he saw the dart the Guv had been holding, embedded in the wall only a few centimetres away from where his ear had been but seconds ago.
"All right, Bolls?" Hunt asks, filling the silence, his eyes never leaving her face. Alex doesn't dare look him directly, she doesn't dare answer. She can feel her cheeks growing hot, the fluttering of nerves in the pit of her stomach. He stares at her still, his expression a mystery, his mouth a thin, neutral line, he asks her if she is all right but then he closes up like a clam, not ready for her answer. What is this absurd dance? Will it ever be over? She takes a step forward and he takes five back, he takes two steps forward and she runs for cover. She wants to shake him and scream, to throw a fit. Not now though, not a scant hour before the Price funeral. This isn't the time for dramatics, best to just remain silent. On the other hand this could be her last chance to tell him what she thinks he wants to hear:
It doesn't have to mean anything.
It was probably a mistake.
It was a mistake.
She'd give anything to take back the events of two days ago.
It wasn't their fault, the bomb, Kirsty Andrews' disappearance and death, Alex Price's kidnapping and Gallagher's murder all led up to that moment of weakness.
They could just pretend it never happened. If he wants to.
Oh God, I hope he doesn't want to, Alex thinks.
He takes a step towards her and for one heady moment Alex is sure he's going to kiss her after all. Instead he rubs a thumb under her right eye. She's disgusted by herself, she never learns, she still hasn't learned all his habits, she still lets herself be fooled.
"Your make up's smudged." He murmurs.
"Thanks. You look nice." She gives him her best smile hoping it will reassure him.
"You do too." His eyes sweep over her, over the elegant, high necked black dress with its discreet pearl buttons, the new hair style and the repaired makeup.
It suddenly feels so hopeless. This whole scene reminds her so horribly of the end of her marriage, when she and David had spent hours together, getting dressed up for dinners where neither of them spoke or ate more than a few bites, it felt like putting on a costume, painting on a mask, playing a role, denying anything was wrong, when it was all so rotten, rotten from the core. Still there had been something hopeful about those nights too, as if things could go back to the way they had been before if they could just find the right clothes to wear, the right perfume. Going to this funeral with Hunt feels exactly the same; she is torn between desperately wanting to go with him and the desire to spend the next week safe under the covers.
"Let's stay here and get drunk instead." She says before she can stop herself. There's a spark in his eye reminiscent of the old Gene Genie but it's gone again in a flash.
"Bolly. Alex. I know how you felt about the Prices…" He starts.
"How I…felt?" She interrupts him; panic tears through her chest without warning, like a forest fire flaring up on a dry summer day. What does he know about her relationship with the Prices? How dare he presume to know how she feels? Even she isn't sure she knows how she felt about them.
"You wouldn't want to miss this." He says, his words have just the right amount of steel behind them and Alex realises this is a command. Why though?
As she slips her feet into the black satin stilettos she wishes she had begged off sooner, fabricated an illness or an important appointment. Had she thought of it sooner she could have gone in by herself, snuck in after Gene and the others took their seats. They wouldn't have to know she was there. She wouldn't have to sit with Hunt. Too late now. Gene's face is grim as he helps her into her coat, his eyes cold and hard. She wonders if this is all her doing. Could that one silly afternoon have changed him so utterly? Who is this humourless man, dressing her for her parents' funeral like an executioner readying a prisoner for the block?
The funeral doesn't seem real until Alex is sitting down at the back next to Gene, just as she has been dreading all morning long. She chooses this seat for a number of reasons. One is that she doesn't want to risk coming face to face with her younger self. Another is the acute desire to stay as far away from Evan as she can manage. Yet another is the horrible nausea that wracks her body at the first sight of the space which will soon hold the single coffin containing her parents' remains. By far the best reason for choosing this seat, she tells herself, is that here, she has a good view of all the guests as they say their goodbyes, at least a better view than the one she had the first time round when everyone was taller than she was. The first time around the confusion, discomfort, awkward silences and bursts of tears and emotion had been too much for her eight year old self to bear. She'd turned inward, stared at her new shoes and longed to be at home in her own room again instead of this overheated place. This time Alex will be able to see everyone as they pass her to take their seats: all the people coming to pay their respects to her parents. Lawyers, politicians, policemen, clients, a group of women from a feminist group Caroline supported, a cluster of refugees Tim was helping, old friends, old enemies; an impressive collection of people. And then finally she'll be able to see Evan looking uncomfortable and tired holding Alex Price's hand, Alex Price herself in the new dark grey dress he chose for her and the coffin. Alex half listens to the voices around her, the fond memories and kind words. The sentence "they were so happy" is repeated over and over again. If they only knew, she can't help thinking. It dawns on Alex that she is really here again. She can smell the incense, and mixture of perfumes and old cigarette smoke emanating from the crowd. She turns to face the door and sees the priest just entering, then the pallbearers and the dreaded coffin and then Evan and Alex Price . Fear prickles Alex's scalp. She knows her parents are dead, she knows why, she knows she failed to save them, but she still can't bear to see this.
She needs to get away, she needs someone to comfort her, she needs to be at home in 2008; she needs Molly. 'Oh Molly, why am I here?' she wonders 'What are you going through without me?' The next thought rises unbidden to the surface of Alex's mind. It had always been there, like an unreachable splinter too deep under the skin, she had just not chosen to think it until now: Should she have trusted the vision of Molly that appeared after Kirsty Andrews was found dead? That pale faced demon? Was it a mistake to choose Gene? Would it have made a difference had she promised to give him up? No sooner do these thoughts cross her mind then an ear-splitting cry erupts from the front of the room.
"You caused this, White, you son of a bitch! It's your fault! And now you're going to stand there accepting condolences like a grieving widower!" A woman with an American accent screams.
A storm of weeping follows and then the scuffle of heels against the stone of the floor, causing Gene to stiffen in his seat beside her. His hand closes on her wrist almost viciously and he manoeuvres her away from the aisle into his seat just as Chris and Ray brush past, either side of a sobbing woman with long black hair, dramatic red lips and streaked makeup: Aunt Carol. A cloud of Chanel no. 5 hits Alex; of course Aunt Carol, who else?
Alex had been waiting for this moment. Dreading it and looking forward to it at the same time. It seems childish memory has not elaborated on this scene in the slightest.
"Just escorting the lady outside, Guv." Chris explains unnecessarily. Suddenly Carol lunges for Gene and grabs hold of his arm, long red fingernails digging into it.
"You're police." Carol doesn't quite ask while Gene futilely attempts to pry her fingers from his sleeve. "Then why don't you arrest that leech Evan White? This is all his doing."
She reaches out towards Alex beseechingly, her eyes thankfully unfocused. Drugged? Alex backs away, she doesn't think Carol would recognise her, after all her own mother didn't, but then Aunt Carol was always unnaturally perceptive. The hand that isn't attached to Gene's suit sleeve snakes forward and brushes Alex's wrist. The sudden contact with Carol causes Alex to recoil in shock and Gene moves instinctively to shield her from the hysterical woman. A wave of relief hits Alex, momentarily drowning every other thought but one: He's protecting me. He still cares enough to protect me. Ray and Chris react at once dragging the woman away from Alex and Gene and attempting to push her through the door. Out of the corner of her eye Alex sees Carol swipe at Ray like an enraged cat, leaving an angry red mark on his cheek and then the door slams shut behind them and Alex sits back down hard. So that was Aunt Carol, she looks so absurdly young. The last time Alex had seen Carol was in the year 2000, she was a 61 year old woman then. She must be in her early forties now, but she looks no older than Alex herself.
As a child Alex had seen Carol as something of a force of nature. She'd likened her to the evil black fairy in Sleeping Beauty, enraged at not being invited to the christening. The words she shouted at Evan had seemed like a mortal curse now they sound empty, hollow, and childish. Now she thinks Carol must be insane. Insane with grief or simply insane- Alex can't tell. Must she lose everything she once believed in? Must the memory of everyone she once cherished be tarnished? How much of what she knows about Carol is true? What will she find out about Aunt Carol? Did she betray her too? Like her father or Evan?
This is what she's always been sure of:
Carol Roth and Tim Price had met while he was studying at Yale for a year. She'd been wild, a real rebel; later she became a freelance journalist, who knew no limits when it came to landing a story. She could show up at a gala in pearls and a see through dress as easily as she could hike through a rainforest without showering for days or stand in a blood-drenched square during a putsch. They'd stayed in contact over the years; she'd even flown to London for Tim's wedding to his sweetheart Caroline. Tim had sometimes said that for years the two most important women in his life had shared a name, almost, until Alex was born. As a teenager she'd often wondered why Tim had chosen the plainer and more serious Caroline when he could have been jetting off to the far reaches of the globe joining the more hands on fight for human rights with Carol.
Carol had always seemed glamorous, like a movie star. She used to send her care packages from the United States filled with lipstick and cassettes and glossy American teen magazines. She used to visit once a year around Christmas and take her shopping for something decadent that Evan always hated. Carol had bought her first pair of high heels; she'd convinced the Director of Support, Bolland, to give her the job as a counsellor with the CIA that changed the course of Alex's life, and she'd bought Alex the ticket to Washington DC and offered her a room in her flat. She'd been there when Alex met and married David Drake, a CIA operative who had been too charming for his own good, too adventurous and too much in love with Alex. She'd held her hand at Molly's birth. It had been eight years since she last saw Carol. Even now she can still feel the sting of her last shouted words. That last argument had played no small role in her decision to pack up Molly and all their belongings and return home to London, perhaps an even larger role than the divorce from David. Evan had been pleased at least, he'd never liked Carol. Alex had always known how upset Evan had been by the terrible scene at the funeral. Now she wonders what else Carol had known about Evan, what he had known about her.
Alex swallows stomach acid; her body's protesting spasms pulling her away from memories and into the present. The past? Evan and Alex Price have reached the front of the church among gasps and shocked whispers. Alex hopes she can escape before the funeral service begins. Her nostrils sting, her eyes water, she scrambles over Gene's legs ignoring his protesting hiss and stumbles in her high heels. A hand on her elbow steadies her.
"Careful now."
Alex looks up with a start at the sound of a man's voice. The man standing before her, no longer holding her elbow, is instantly familiar. Dark hair, dark eyes, the straight nose of a marble statue, a soft mouth, mobile, he's smiling but his eyes hold no mirth. He holds out his hand to Hunt who shakes it distractedly looking ahead at Evan White, who is now trying to calm the crowd so that the service can start at last.
"Please accept my apologies." The man says; his accent is American, Californian if Alex remembers correctly. "Ms. Roth is distraught. She was very close to Mr. Price."
Alex flicks her eyes down to the hand stretched out for her to shake, the tip of his middle finger is missing; she takes his hand gingerly her throat so dry she can barely swallow. If there had ever been any doubt there is no mistaking him now. The eyes, the smile, the mutilated finger, he'd be about 36 in 1981, yes that was about right. The scar near his upper lip is missing and his nose is too straight, his hair is too dark; but other than that it's obvious. Of course she knows him after all he had given her chance with the CIA all those years ago. He is Bolland, Nicholas Bolland, called Bollie; it's now 10 years before he will be made Director of Support for the CIA. It will be another 6 years after that before Alex Price, an enthusiastic 23 year old flies to Washington DC to live with her Aunt Carol and work as a counsellor for the CIA. They'll finally meet at a party, Aunt Carol will introduce them, reluctantly, there's a bitter note to Carol's voice when she says his name. Alex will be wearing a short, dark blue Chinese dress embroidered with golden dragons she'll be holding on to her boyfriend David's arm as if she's afraid to let go. When she gives Bolland her hand to shake he will grip it in a similar manner, colour will stain his face and neck, and he will look down at the floor. Alex Price will blush bright red too but shake Bolland's reaction to her off, as the eccentric behaviour of a sentimental old man who had known her as a child. Now, Alex isn't too sure.
She remembers that first hand shake in 1997 all too clearly, for him, it hadn't been the first, this was, this handshake in 1981. She's still holding on to his hand too shocked to move, when she looks up at Nicholas Bolland's face he's looking back at her intently, with interest but no recognition. Obviously he's only just meeting her. There's something else there too as his eyes gaze into hers, a slightly dazed look. She struggles to think of something reassuring to say to him but before she can speak he slips out of the door after Ray and Chris and Carol.
Hunt looks displeased, his blue eyes are narrowed, his jaw tight, but he isn't looking at Alex, he's still looking at Evan. There's something pointed in the way he does this as if it's preferable to stare at White rather than deal with Alex.
"That man." Alex says marvelling at her thin, trembling voice. "I thought I recognised him."
The fact that Gene doesn't even grace this with an answer cuts like a knife.
