A short, angsty one-shot drabble from Gene's POV, following on from the end of ep 7, so spoilers for that. I'm pretty unspoiled for ep8 so there shouldn't be any spoilers in here but there's a chance I may have been unconsciously influence by the ep8 trailer.

This fic is named after a Vonda Shepherd song from Ally McBeal, the lyrics of which gave me some inspiration, however this isn't a songfic.

Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes, the BBC, Kudos and Monastic do. If I did, Keats would never have shown up at Alex's flat in ep 7.

Baby, Don't You Break My Heart Slow

Bloody Sam Tyler. He who'd come waltzing into the Manc Lion's kingdom acting king of the jungle. As he'd told Alex, he'd learnt more from Sam than anyone else he'd ever met, he'd become a better man and a better copper for it, yet it was this same man who'd set him on the path that looked destined to bring his world crashing down around him.

Less than an hour ago, he'd dared to hope it all might be ok, that things might be on the up. He'd dared to believe that the woman he loved (yes, loved, he couldn't get away from the fact) might actually feel the same way.

The look in her eyes as he'd moved to kiss her, the breathiness of her voice as she'd told him to wait in the bedroom told him that it was about more than just sex, more than love even. It was about her trusting him. About them having a connection.

What a fool he'd been. He'd done plenty of stupid things for her, his appearance on Police 5 being the most embarrassing and he'd tried to show he the man he was, let his guard down, yet still, she didn't trust him.

As he'd crept back into the living room looking for her, he'd let the thought cross his mind that she was in the bathroom, that she'd appear, clad in silk and lace, all come-to-bed eyes, pure lust and desire. Yet as quickly as he'd indulged that fantasy, reality kicked in and he saw her coat was gone and the door was still open.

She'd proved that she didn't trust him, that she'd believe that slimy bastard Keats over him. "If you don't believe me, what's the point?" His words from earlier echoing in his head, Gene had stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

Arriving at his office, he'd headed straight for his filing cabinet. Gene Hunt believed there were only three things in life that were certain; death, taxes and whisky. Two of them left you in the shit, but the third could always be relied upon. During times of joy, sorrow, hurt and love, whisky would stoke or numb the emotions, whatever you wanted.

Pouring himself a large measure, he raised the glass to his lips but stopped when the woody, smoky aroma engulfed his senses. The last time he'd smelt it, he was preparing for their 'date' seven hours earlier.

His stomach has been doing somersaults as he'd washed his face, hands shaking as he'd drawn the razor across his face, fingers fumbling as he'd tried to knot his tie. It had all been for nothing; she'd gone and left him anyway. Like his wife, like Sam.

He slammed the glass back down on the desk, contents untouched, stood up and gave his wastepaper bin a good hard kick. It did nothing to release his anger and frustration, so he kicked the filing cabinet, slammed his fist on top of it and let out a noise that could only be described as primal, before eventually pulling it out of position and heaving it across the floor of his office. Giving it one last kick for good measure, he looked up to see Keats standing in the middle of CID.

"Well, well, well, the mighty Gene Hunt is losing his touch. Taking it out on the office furniture instead of someone in custody? Seems you might be learning."

It took all of Gene's composure not to land one on the D&C officer, after all, he was part of the reason Alex had left so abruptly, why she didn't trust him even after he'd told her the truth.

"Oh I know everything I need to know, Jimbo. So why don't you just piss off to the furnace you call an office and check your blessed report for spelling mistakes?"

"She doesn't want you, Gene. She's seen you for the man you really are. A corrupt individual, who covers up murders and hurts those closest to him."

"You know what, Jimbo? I don't give a shit anymore. You can file your little report based on lies and speculation. You might take me down and get me pensioned off but at least I'll be able to wake up every day knowing there's a good number of murderers and nonces not on the street to prey on the innocent. That's down to me and my team. What the fuck have you ever done?"

"Sad thing, denial, Gene. When I've finished, you won't even be a footnote in the history of Fenchurch East, let alone the legend you've tried to make yourself." Keats smirked as he swept out of the squad room, leaving Gene looking around despondently.

Keats's words hurt because they were true. Alex didn't want him, if she did, she'd have trusted him in the first place and not doubted him when he told her the truth. He still couldn't understand what could have made her run out though. One minute she was looking at him, her eyes dark with desire, telling him to wait in the bedroom, the next she was gone.

Behind the bedroom door, Gene hadn't been able to hear who had interrupted them, he'd heard Alex tell whoever it was it wasn't a good time, yet why hadn't she just shut the door in their face?

Pacing up and down the squad room, Gene tried in vain to think about what could have made her run out like that, she hadn't even shut the door. Hell, was she coming back? Maybe he should have waited a little longer. You idiot, Gene. She could be over there right now, thinking what a bastard you are for running out on her. She might have only nipped across the road and here you are, thinking the worst of her.

Surely she'd had said though, and what could she have possibly needed to go out for? No, something had spooked her and she'd changed her mind. Gene slumped in his chair, needing to think. Opening his desk drawer, he decided to try the whisky again but this time from his hip flask, hoping to avoid the peaty aroma which had set his mind whirring before.

Reaching into the drawer he felt around for the one he knew he kept there, finding it lodged right at the back behind the tin box that had rest there ever since he'd been at Fenchurch East. Pulling the box out of the way, Gene noticed the lid had come loose. It seemed odd, as far as he could remember he hadn't opened it the whole time he'd been in London.

Opening it, it soon became apparent that while he may not have opened it, someone else had. The box was empty.

"Shit," muttered Gene as the penny dropped. He sat stock still, trying to take in the realisation that not only had she been through his desk, looking for evidence against him, but that she'd taken that evidence and run off with it, not even bothering to talk to him about it first.

Normally, Gene would have chucked the box across the room, kicked his filing cabinet and headed off to some backstreet pub to drink himself to oblivion. This wasn't normal, though. It dawned on Gene that he couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep putting himself through the hurt and shame of letting her in, only to find no matter what he did, she simply couldn't trust him.

Gene wasn't a man to talk about his feelings, most of the time he avoided acknowledging them, yet he knew that every time he let her close to him and she threw it back at him, it felt like someone was cutting a tiny bit deeper into his heart. Not enough to kill him in one go but enough to cause him to die a slow painful death. She was taking his heart, his feelings and breaking them, slowly but surely, piece by piece. He'd given up the thought a long time ago that all it would take to get her out of his head was a drunken shag or an earth-shattering blow-job. She weakened him and there was no way it could go on like this.

Lifting his hipflask to his lips and swallowing the contents in one go, Gene stood up. He knew what he had to do, find Alex, have it out with her once and for all, try and sort this stupid mess out. If they couldn't, well, then Keats was right, the time was up, they couldn't go on working together, something had to give.

Slamming the drawer shut, picking up the box and sliding it into his jacket pocket, he strode out of his office and across the squad room. He was about to open the door, when something on her desk caught his eye. He turned towards his and pushed the papers on it to one side to reveal the numbers carved into its surface 6-6-20.

"Enough's enough, Bolly. Time for the truth." He said aloud to himself.

"Tell me then, Gene." The voice came from behind him.

Slowly looking up, he saw her standing in the doorway behind Shaz's desk. She didn't look angry, or like she'd been crying but she certainly didn't look happy.

Meeting her gaze, Gene felt his stomach do an involuntary flip and he took a deep breath.

"You'd better step into my office, Inspector."