A/N. All, many thanks for the reviews of Cloudless – they've got me all inspired to write more Ashes so soon!
If one were to google the title of my next elaborate conclusion theory (it would make my day if this one comes true!) you'd probably find out the whole story if you don't know it already.
For now, I hope you enjoy this teaser of sorts, and I can promise more soon because I've almost finished it! Please R&R, I appreciate it lots x
ASPHODEL FIELDS.
Preface.
She was looking at him in that tantalising manner again. He could see it coming a mile off, that same old, 'What is it about you, Gene? Why are you here, Gene?' speech. The affectionate one, not the one laced with wine soaked hisses and pointed glares. Today he'd saved her from doing something stupid again, locked up the appropriate bad guy, and carried her over the finish line. So here she is, dropping her guard and playing the damsel in distress, just for one moment, one glorious moment. He sighs, one of these days he's not going to be able to put a stop to it. Her eyes will be so soft and her expression so hurt and lost, that he'll have to answer her questions with the truth. That won't do at all.
"Piss off Bolls, you're acting like a bloody liability. Get some sleep, come back tomorrow." Her eyes narrow and her hands move unconsciously to her hips. Sure enough, he's back to the role of sexist Neanderthal and she's back on target. Molly. Control. Home. It's just the way it has to be.
-*-
That evening, the DCI sits alone in the dark trattoria. It's long been closed, and even Luigi has finished shuffling around the kitchen and gone to bed. There's no source of light in the underground cavern, but his eyes have long adjusted to the blackout and he can see far enough to connect whisky glass with mouth. In fact he enjoys the darkness, especially the way the looming faces painted upon the furthest wall from the bar appear ever so menacing without the soft warm atmosphere. He guesses the time to be around half past three in the morning. This assumption is based solely upon the clockwork habits of DI Drake, whom he'd heard only moments ago, as usual, stir from her fitful slumber and begin to stalk loudly around her flat. The pipes hum briefly as she pours a large glass of water, and soon Gene is returned to silence as she makes her way back to bed. There's a twinge in his chest as he thinks of her upstairs, clad in one of the shirts he used to keep in the flat when it was empty, and their lost souls were merely waiting for her. He hopes she doesn't dream again, he wishes it was within his power to bestow such inner peace upon her.
As Gene reaches forward for another sip of the amber liquid, willing its sweet nectar to send him into a peaceful slumber for once, he's interrupted by a deep crashing thunderous sound that causes him to drop his glass and cover his ears in instinct.
"Cerberus; you've taken your eye off the ball. You're drinking again." The creature does not bother with the mortal act of introduction, a great redeeming feature in Gene's eyes. He steps down from his stool and turns to face the monster, who's latest guise is that of their current DSI.
"Christ on a bike, Mac. What do you want?"
"A warning is all, Cerberus. Play time is almost over, and I fear for your competence. You're going to let us down again."
"Bloody 'ell, boss. He came back, didn't he? He didn't deserve to. Nutter."
"He drowned in the Styx. An extraordinarily hideous conclusion to a uniquely disastrous tale. I should not need to remind you that it's imperative this soul is also destroyed. Tartarus is not fit for a creature of such knowledge." Gene takes a deep breath and thinks of the dark and treacherous depths of the Thames. When he focuses again, the creature is gone. One more gulp of whiskey and he drops his heavy head gratefully onto the bar and lets his eyes close.
-*-