When the day is long, and the night, the night is yours alone…
Gene was sat at his desk in Fenchurch East, his fingers idly toying with the tumbler of whisky in front of him. CID was empty apart from the rugged DCI, slumped alone in the chair, his eyes vacant, dreaming of people who were now too far away for him to reach, fantasising about when they would meet again, remembering the days of them being his team, the greatest he'd ever had, the A-Team of his life, the heists and laughs and sad times and overall the days when he just felt like he was the luckiest man alive.
Only that was so ironic, wasn't it? He wasn't alive. None of them were.
Ray… Chris… Shaz… Sam… Annie… Alex.
Even thinking her name, his fingers tightened their grip on the crystal-cut glass between the pads of his fingers, their usual pinkness becoming creamy white as the blood was forced from them; as he took his hand away from the smooth surface, his fingerprints gleamed back at him, smudged onto the glimmering surface, his and his only, unique to him.
Nobody could replace him, he knew that. Nobody would ever be the new Manc Lion, would replace him as the well-respected figure he was, after he was gone. After he had gone wherever he was supposed to go.
When you're sure you've had enough of this life, well hang on…
"Bloody 'ard to 'old on when yer surrounded by bloody poofters an' yer best ever team's gone AWOL," Gene muttered, looking up slowly at the office around him. The desks, cluttered with paperwork, ugly and cigarette-stained, stared back at him obstinately, their inhabitants off enjoying themselves while he, Gene, sat here lonely, wrapped up in his own thoughts.
Did it hurt for him? Did losing his friends, his colleagues, even those he loved, hurt? The aching pain in his chest, which had been there ever since Alex had kissed him, said yes, it did.
Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be like them. Dead and able to pass on to heaven. What would it be like? Good? Better than this half-life, this living death, that he had passed into ever since they had gone, that was certain. He had no idea why he hadn't yet leapt off the top of the building, or down from his window. He could have died there, broken and crushed, a dead man dying his second death, his after death, and would the world around him have cared?
Contrary to popular belief, he hadn't created this world. This world had come from someone else and entrusted to him. If he died, someone else, theoretically, would gain that trust, and the world would move on as normal. For a day or so, the tabloids would run a story about the tragic suicide of DCI Gene Hunt. And then what?
Don't let yourself go, 'cause everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes…
But I don't only hurt sometimes, Gene murmured in his thoughts, bringing his hand up to wipe away the smear on his cheek. He had something in his eye, he muttered to himself, just needed to get it out.
But as he wiped harder at his cheek, the thing buried much deeper than his eye only seemed to sharpen, and the salt tears began to flow, dripping sadly onto his tie, his shirt, making glittering trails down his scarred and wrinkled face, and his best efforts to stop them ended in him simply leaning back and letting them tumble, the tiny circles appearing on the carpet, on his trousers, matching the invisible droplets leaking from his heart, the heart that by rights had stopped beating years and years ago. He rested his palm on the damp fabric above his heart, feeling the steady thump of his life organ, pushing his blood around his body, the genes in the cells making up the tissue unique to him.
Alex's voice whispered in the heavy silence.
"Oh, Gene… You need to realise, and remember, that you've been hurting for too long. It's time to stop. Time to heal."
Gene swerved around, looking for the source of the voice but only finding himself.
"Bloody 'ell, maybe it's time fer me ter go ter the nut 'ouse," he whispered, knowing that he wasn't convincing anyone or anything. He was as sane as anyone, but the loneliness and wishing and living in dreams that had been consuming him for weeks would drive him over the edge if he didn't do anything about it.
Abandoning the scotch and scribbling a brief note, simply saying goodbye to his team and appointing his DI as the new DCI of Fenchurch East, his soul surprisingly happy at the prospect of handing his kingdom over to someone else, someone he barely even knew, Gene grabbed his coat and left, his snakeskin boots thumping on the checkerboard carpet for the last time, his hand making contact with the cold metal sheen of the door and pushing the doors he had opened so many times with Alex at his side, sending a little thrill up his spine at the recollections. He paused for a few seconds, the bright blue eyes that had seen too much for the man inside them looking around the office he had worked and lived and argued and loved in, before letting the doors swing to and walking away, softly, his eyes downcast.
The streets of London had never been quieter to Gene; he walked along slowly, his eyes still fixed on the floor, the look of a man who only just knew where he was going and what he was doing about him. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette, throwing the rest of the packet to a tramp as he went past in an uncharacteristic gesture towards the man, who grabbed the packet as though it was the most precious bundle possible and nodded thankfully to the man walking morosely past him. Gene stubbed the cigarette barrelled between his fingers out as he walked past a lamp-post, inside remembering Alex's distaste at his smoking and wondering if she would have scolded him for not just throwing the cigarettes in a bin somewhere…
"Gene Hunt?"
Gene stopped dead in his tracks, staring up at the deserted street, his mouth slightly open in confusion. The voice wasn't Alex's, but it sounded almost like a younger version of her might have, as though it was the voice from her childhood making its way to his ears now…
"Gene Hunt. I'm Molly."
Molly. That was her daughter's name…
"Molly," Gene murmured, his eyes seeking out the girl and widening as she appeared from round a corner, her long brown hair tied back in a thick ponytail, a birthmark on her cheek, strong against her pale skin. Her clothing appraised of a pleated skirt, a dull blue jumper and tie under a navy blazer, and sensible schoolgirl shoes with gym socks; clearly some kind of school uniform, but nice nonetheless and fitting on the girl. Her eyes, clear and brown and a throwback to the woman Gene remembered so vividly, fixed on his, a smile gracing her pale lips as she reached out to him and then dropped her arm, her beautifully coloured irises beginning to shimmer with unshed tears.
"You knew my mummy. She never came to my birthday party, Gene. And you were invited as well."
"What… are you speakin' in riddles or something? Bloody 'ell, you really are like your mum."
Molly smiled.
"She's waiting for you, Gene. There's a song that hasn't been released yet, but I think I'm going to use the tune now."
Her eyes turned to the street corner as she began to sing, her voice light and trilling, reminiscent of a young woman Gene remembered saving from a car explosion, what felt like millions of years ago…
"Everybody hurts… sometimes…
Even Gene Hunt hurts, sometimes…"
Gene couldn't listen any more; he broke into a run, pummelling the street as his boots clattered towards the next street, his breath ragged and desperate, scratching at the frozen air as he swerved, seeing the little girl still singing, her face still beautiful but now terrible, harshly-lined and old, scarred with grief; the song was simply those two lines over and over again, echoing in Gene's roaring ears as he skidded to a halt, clutching his side, Molly's voice not fading for the distance he was putting between himself and her, still screaming at him, becoming crueller and crueller, digging at his very soul, his psyche, and sending black despair into him, grief a thousand times worse than he had ever known…
"NOW YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL!" Molly's young voice, magnified a thousand times, shrieked at him, clawing at his hands as he covered his ears in desperation, sinking onto the road, closing his eyes as the raw pain tore through him, unforgiving and sharp, and never ever easing…
He didn't see the headlamps of the oncoming lorry until it was too late.
His eyes opened.
In front of him were the welcoming lights and heart-warming sounds of the Mancunian pub he remembered so dearly, the atmosphere around it already recalling nights spent on the booze, laughing about what the wife would say when he finally staggered home and threw himself into bed fully-clothed. The door bore the golden letters he could remember gleaming under his fingers from so many years ago, now in shadow due to the shortage of light outside the pub contrasting with the overdose of illumination within.
He smiled. He took a step forwards, to where he knew the A-Team was waiting for him, about to be reunited with their Hannibal.
From the shadows, a small smile flashed as a blonde ponytail swung and vanished.
A/N: I hope you like it! Just a little one-shot there for you. Please review, I really really love reviews, they make my week- no joke. Thanks for reading! Jazzola :)