"Funk to Funky"
Disclaimer: I don't own, so don't sue, only currency involved pure pleasure and an overactive imagination. What if...Gene is Alex's saviour?
They had seconds to go, so they ran, for once Gene kept pace with his younger DI. There was a wetness soaking his left sleeve, and a strange stabbing pain in his arm just above the elbow, but now wasn't the time to dally and check it out.
"Run!" he roared in Alex Drake's ear, "I am" she snapped back. "Well run faster, Bolly! Or are you afraid of disturbing your hairdo!" He grunted as she accelerated and he struggled to increase his pace, then the world around them exploded. His split second final reaction was to throw his arms around her and then they were tumbling and falling. The world went black.
He slowly became aware of two things, that someone was cuddled up against him, head resting against his shoulder, his chin was resting on top of someone's head; and that there was a stabbing pain in his left arm. Keeping his eyes shut, Gene inhaled slowly. His Bolly, he'd know that poncey perfume anywhere. He adjusted his position slightly, and hissed as the pain in his arm redoubled. He opened an eye and squinted down, along the length of their closely meshed bodies, then snapped back to his arm resting on her waist. The shirt sleeve was torn, and soaked in blood. He'd been shot. At least he assumed that he'd been shot, since it was unlikely that Bolly had bitten him during a night of unbridled passion, and he didn't remember any knives being in the vicinity. The point was, as he discovered when he tried to move his arm, that it hurt. A lot.
Trying to ease himself into a more comfortable position without a) waking Bolly, b) hurting himself any more than necessary, Gene had time to ponder a few things that were now seriously troubling him. Firstly, at what point she had become "His" Bolly, not just a mouthy posh tart with a head full of brains and the common sense of a grain weevil. Secondly, just why he was recalling being locked in a hot dark place with said mouthy posh tart with considerable pleasure. And finally, because unless his mind was truly failing him, why they appeared to be lying on a bed together, in a light airy bedroom, in what appeared to be a posh up market house, since the last thing he could remember from this morning was all hell breaking loose as he and Bolly were fleeing through the abandoned factory to get away from the bomb.
Gene reviewed the facts as he could see them. Without getting up and moving around that was. He was lying on a bed, in a large airy bedroom, next to his Bolly. They were both still mostly dressed, although his tie and jacket were missing, and someone appeared to have taken his boots off. Easing back a little from Bolly, he screwed his eyes shut as malevolent little trolls scurried around inside the huge hole in his arm...he waited until the waves of pain slowed to a manageable level, then opened his eyes to look more closely at his companion. It was definitely his Bolly, but not quite as he had last seen her. Instead of the soft curly perm she had been sporting, she wore a sleek cut, and strangely, a lot less make up, he was just trying to decide if he liked the more natural look, when he noticed that the clothes she was wearing were not exactly what he remembered from just before the explosion. The prim white shirt was nothing like the loose soft blue top that showed off a large expanse of slim bare shoulder, and the grey trousers were nothing like the skin tight black pants she had been wearing.
Alex came to with a jerk, suddenly aware that she was lying in Gene Hunt's arms. She sat up without thinking, which provoked a howl from Gene and a gasp from her own lips. She was looking down at her own 2008 wardrobe, well cut trouser suit, prim, crisp white shirt. She scrambled to her feet, prompting another pained yelp from the Manc Lion and threw the door wide. As she did so, several things hit her all at once. She was back in 2008, and apparently everything that had happened was not a dream or an imaginary construct, because he was right there with her. And he was hurt.
Alex turned round. Right now, her main focus had to be Gene's injury. She'd look for explanations in a minute, best deal with him first.
"Let me see." she calmly sat down next to him on the bed. His eyes were still screwed shut, his good hand gripping the sheets, as he tried to fight down the nausea that overwhelmed him when she'd jolted his arm twice in rapid succession. She gently reached out, taking his arm she tried to slide his sleeve up to have a closer look at the wound. Now Alex knew for certain, and for whatever reason, that somehow the morning's explosion had thrown both of them back into her time, and that many of her assumptions were wrong. Gene was real. Very real. She could feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers, the stickiness of the blood soaked into the sleeve of his shirt, hear the muttered oath as she tried to peel the shirt sleeve back and it stuck to the still sluggishly bleeding wound. And that the touch and feel of his skin beneath her fingers brought a longing to the surface that she was having trouble ignoring. DI Alex Drake, the cool intellectual plugged in officer, with an eye on the future and a handle on her life, wanted an over the hill, overweight, unreconstructed Neanderthal with a penchant for wine, women and fast cars. A dinosaur of an old fashioned copper. Alex, trained in the art of analysing her fellow man, suddenly found herself extremely reluctant to examine her own feelings. They were there, and they were going to come back to haunt her that was certain.
She clamped down on unbidden thoughts of skin against skin, his lips on hers, and strange sensations in rapid succession of first stifling heat and then freezing cold, and concentrated on the task in front of her.
"You've been shot" she looked him straight in the eye.
"And there was I thinking that you bit me in all the excitement!" he growled at her. His usually sarcastic bite somewhat diminished by the throbbing in his arm, and the hitherto unexplored desire to drag her off to his lair forthwith.
"No bullet in there, it appears to be just a graze."
"Speak for yourself, Bolly." He scowled, last thing he was going to let her see was just how much the mixture of pain and her touch were affecting him. He was also feeling somewhat confused about exactly where they were.
"I'll call a doctor."
"You won't. Fix it yourself." One thing Gene did feel certain about. Doctors. Bunch of jessies. He didn't like the medical profession. Too smooth and swanky by half. Something in the look in his eyes, made Alex agree, even though the practical, police trained side of her nature argued that he needed, at the very least a tetanus jab, and the wound should have a thorough clean and he probably could do with a stitch or two.
"Bolly, get on with it."
Reluctantly, she stood up, and exited her bedroom, pausing in the doorway to look back at the bed. He'd settled back and shut his eyes. Gene Hunt, six foot of Manc Lion, stretched out across her bed. Alex pursed her lips, squared her shoulders and headed to the bathroom for the first aid kit. She was strangely relieved to find that they appeared to be alone in her house, glancing at her watch, she noted that Molly would be at school, so she had a little time to find some answers to her latest conundrum. She retrieved the first aid kit, and went downstairs for a bowl and water.
Having found what she wanted, she climbed the stairs back to her room with a feeling of strange reluctance. She was almost afraid that he wouldn't be real. He was. He was lying across her bed, bleeding onto her duvet cover without so much as a by your leave. So very Gene. Alex squared her shoulders again. She was going to get through this without any more unbidden thoughts of a carnal nature.
She set the bowl down on the bedside table, and sat down next to him on the bed. He opened one eye. "What are you waiting for Bolly? An engraved invitation?" he closed the eye. "I won't bite." Flustered by the tide of want that welled up in her, she grabbed his arm. Both eyes snapped open, then screwed shut "Strewth, Bolly, you have the gentle touch of a wounded rhino!" Alex flushed and took his arm more carefully. Concentrating all her efforts on the nasty seeping hole in his arm just above the elbow, she gently cleaned the wound, and then dressed it. Focussing on the wound, she just about managed to ignore other feelings.
Gene sat up to admire her handiwork. "Very good love, if you're ever in need of a change of job, may I recommend working in a munitions factory? Now, where exactly are we?"
Alex winced, "in 2008" she tentatively ventured.
"Bolly, I have a hole in my arm, not my head." Gene sighed, his DI had clearly lost the plot. "Am I supposed to deduce from this new stunning piece of unsupported evidence, that I am dead and you are now my imaginary construct?"