It was a bitingly cold winter's morning. The sky stretched low, mussel grey and ominous, layered with car fumes that fogged the air. Hunt walked briskly into HQ, his footsteps crunching purposefully over the frost.
He'd had quite a lot to think about over the last few months. Had time to come to terms with some unpleasant facts that had packed a vicious punch. Improbable impossible impractical interpretations of that which he'd called life. But he'd finally realised, thanks to a unexpected ray of clarity that had broken through the whiskey haze; that once all the craziness was stripped away, once you looked at the situation for what it really was ... well, it simmered down to just two choices: flight or fight. Sink or swim. And Hunt was nothing if he wasn't an all fighting, strong swimming bastard. So he'd pushed the craziest of the shit to one side, to be sifted through at a later, unspecified date. He'd cut down on the drinking and thrown himself back into CID. With a new team around him, he'd worked hard to get the cogs working as smoothly as they should, oiling the machinery with liberal amounts of late night drinking, football talk and tit jokes.
Luigi's had closed down at the end of the summer. And whilst losing that last link to them ... to her ... had nearly cut him adrift again, instead of being swept away he'd clung on by his fingertips to the new life he was determinedly shaping for himself. And when the premises reopened as The Greek, he allowed it to suit him and his new team down to the ground. The owner, Billy, was thrilled to have their custom, treated them like the Sheriffs they were; retsina all round and a generous hand with the ouzo. Hunt even succumbed occasionally to the amorous advances made by Billy's busty cousin, Luella. Not often enough to suit her, just once in a while, to keep his hand in. So all in all, he was doing ok. Life ... as it was, went on.
Nodding at Watkins, the desk sergeant, Hunt continued on his way to his office. Looking forward to nothing more than smearing City's weekend win in the faces of the two nancy boys on his team who were daft enough to admit supporting United.
He began the morning sweep past Jim's old office, narrowing his eyes at the lingering memories of that crazy nut job. This time, however, Hunt's pace faltered. He couldn't help but notice a crack of dirty orange light seeping out from under the door - he paused ... did he feel warmer as he stood here, did the air feel a little heavier? Hunt's face darkened to a scowl. Eyes cold, he (unusually tentative) stretched a hand towards the door handle. As his fingers closed around it (the metal definitely feeling warmer than it should) the door whipped open. Revealing that mad git's bespectacled, beaming face.
"Gene! I've been wondering when our paths would cross. Don't you think it's time we got on with the rematch?"
No. NO. Jim Keats was VERY FIRMLY at the bottom of Hunt's list of things to be thought about sometime NEVER. What the fuck was he doing back at Fenchurch East? Hunt grimly shoved the grinning loon back inside the uncomfortably stuffy room, slamming the door behind him.
Gripping Keats' collar firmly, Hunt slammed him viciously against the nearest wall and hoisted him up, up, up until the only purchase Keats had on the floor was by scrabbling tip toe.
Leaning close, Hunt hissed, mere millimetres from Keats' face "You? You belong in my PAST. You have no place here, none whatsoever. So make your miserable existence that much easier by DOING ONE. NOW."
To Hunt's consternation, Keats began to giggle. Wheezily, given his precarious position, but a giggle nonetheless.
"Gene. Dear old, silly old Gene Genie. Did you REALLY think that was the last you'd seen of me?"
And with that he feebly pushed back at Hunt. The dark threat in Keats' words had the strength to do what his puny arms could not and Hunt took a step back. Everything he'd tried so hard, so DAMN hard, to push away, to suppress, came swamping back into his mind.
His grave.
Drake.
The team.
Drake ...
Keats' laughing face.
Oh, he'd punch that fucking face in a minute, he just felt ... curiously winded by the flashbacks, the memories, the ugly unpalatable truth he'd tried to forget. He wasn't helped by the stale air that was circulating sluggishly round the room. Staggering ever so slightly, he pulled his tie loose, fought to take in a decent breath.
And then it was Keats' turn to loom over Hunt. Pushing his face up close, his breath smelling rotten. Dead. How apt.
"You may have won that skirmish Gene. That one tiny ... insignificant little scrap. But I'm not going anywhere. And for every lost soul that ends up here for Daddy Gene to save - well, Uncle JIMMY'S gonna be here too, trailing your EVERY move, tempting and tantalising and teasing until they TURN ON YOU, and your Neolithic, time addled ways and come DOWNSTAIRS, with ME!"
With each shout, Jim Keats jabbed Hunt spitefully in the shoulder, pushing him, shoving him again and again, until Hunt finally felt the wall holding steady behind him. Keats' breath revolted him, the spittle that accompanied his poisonous words threatening to make the Gene Genie spew up last night's steak and chips. Hunt turned his face to the ceiling, fighting for a clean breath, a chestful of air to cool his burning lungs.
With an unexpected crash, the office door flew open, flooding the fetid room with light and a fresh breeze. Both men blinked at the intrusion, and at the figure that stood silhouetted by the light from the corridor.
No more than 5ft 5. A distinctly feminine figure, curvy (great tits, Hunt's mind supplied, on autopilot). Dressed in a tight sweater, pencil skirt, sheer stockings and vertiginous peep toe heels. She stepped forward, out of the glare. Lush brunette pony tail swinging with the movement, silver hooped earrings catching the light, flicked eyeliner framing expressive green eyes. Plump lips curled into a grim smile. One hand holding the door open, one hand on her hip, she spoke, her voice low and measured.
"Jim! Fancy starting the party without me", she made a sad little moue of disappointment.
Jim Keats jerked quickly out of the light and away from the woman as though her proximity pained him in some way.
"What. The FUCK. Are YOU doing here? Who authorised this? Fenchurch East is supposed to be MINE, Gene Hunt and his team are for ME, this ... squalid little corner of eighties human drama was promised for JIM. KEATS!" The man's furious words failed to hide the tension, the nervous squeak and trill to his voice.
The woman, whoever she was, let go of the door where it promptly slammed shut. She sauntered past Hunt who took a second to revel in the cool air that seemed to swirl around her, the ocean fresh breeze that emanated from this attractively packaged plot twist. She strode without hesitation right up to Keats who, to Hunt's disbelief, backed away from her until he was cowering against the desk.
"Oh Jim" a smile in her voice, "did you really think you'd be able to waltz in here and just - take it all? If you WANT Fenchurch East - if you WANT Gene Hunt ... then you should be aware that we're going to fight hard to keep it ... fight dirty to keep him ..."
Keats gulped audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically up and down.
"Wait, wait a sec, just a sec, what's all this fighting talk? Surely we can come to a better arrangement, a partnership, some sort of deal - let's discuss it sometime, away from here, somewhere nice, over dinner, good bottle of wine, you and me, it's been too long ..."
Keats' voice was quavering, cringing. The woman didn't dignify his pathetic invitation with a response, her iced glare and perfectly arched eyebrow was enough to silence Keats, who looked seconds away from scuttling under the desk itself.
Hunt finally found his voice. "Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck is going on?" he ground out, this was getting too tasty for a Monday morning, it was about time he reminded everyone he was Gene Hunt and this was his patch.
The woman turned and walked back to Hunt, finally coming face to face with him. She stood tall, her green eyes appraising, a hint of a smile on her lips as she took in the absolute legend of a man in front of her.
"DCI Hunt? DI Ruby Chaussures. Sent on long term secondment from upstairs. For as long as you need me, Guv."