A/N Thanks to everyone who read and big thanks to those who reviewed. Last part; don't know about anyone else but I'm relieved it's over...

Running Out Of Ammunition

Chapter Three

"Shooting me isn't going to work," Gene said softly into the silence.

Alex tried to ignore what he'd said, and the way he'd spoken to her, because he was only trying to talk his way - and her - out of this. Wasn't he? She tried to squeeze the trigger of her gun but her finger wouldn't move, the message from her brain getting lost somewhere between her head and her hand. She silently cursed him and herself for her failure. She tried again, one last desperate bid, concentrating on Molly and willing her finger to move but there was a complete lack of co-operation once more. Despite her best efforts to dismiss his words they swirled invitingly around her head, chipping away at her already cracked resolve and steering her away from her goal. It didn't help that he was staring - almost knowingly it seemed like - at her, quietly letting the gravity of his words sink in. The ambiguity was evident once more but she felt herself being drawn in; let herself get drawn in by them. The doubt that had raised its head just moments ago when he'd questioned the validity of her reasoning made another appearance too. Maybe it had never really gone away, only hidden by his sudden proximity and her burning desire to go home. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and sore as the doubts rampaged through her thoughts and carefully laid out plan. She'd always told herself that her initial resistance to pursuing this route had lain in the actual act itself; she'd never shot anybody before - never even shot at anybody - so aiming a gun at Gene, at someone she'd come to like, someone she had barely suppressed feelings for, was always going to be difficult. But maybe some of her reluctance had lain in the possibility that destroying Gene wouldn't actually send her home. As much as she'd placed her faith in Sam's narration it had been an account of his world, not hers.

She struggled to cling on to the belief that Gene really was her jailer, that he was the one keeping her in this world. He'd stopped her escaping from the very start, cruising in on that speedboat, machine gun in hand like he was some hero from an 80s tv cop show when she hadn't needed his help; if she'd taken care of Layton there and then she would have, unknowingly at that point, prevented her parents deaths and in doing so might have been able to go home too. What had Gene said to her that day? Something along the lines of her having to stay in this world a bit longer - and at his behest. And it had been Gene who had released her parents from custody the morning they'd died; if they'd remained behind bars for just a few more hours she could have changed everything, she could have gone home. Couldn't she? In truth it was a belief that she could neither prove or disprove - it would only ever be a theory. Just as her belief that going through with this would finally send her home was only a theory - until she pulled the trigger and tested it. But now she couldn't shake off the suggestion that shooting him might only result in a bloody mess and a lengthy jail sentence. "Isn't it?" she asked hesitantly, feeling her nerve crumble that bit further as she spoke.

"Think about it, Alex," Gene offered quietly, his thumb brushing lightly against the back of her hand, drawing her closer towards him without either of them moving. "What a bullet will do. What will happen afterwards."

Her breath caught in her throat at his reply and she could only stare at him, quietly returning his gaze as her heart started to thump wildly once again. He could have been talking about himself, about how the bullet in her gun would pierce his heart and end his life. But he could also have been talking about her, about her own mortality. It didn't matter if he was only trying to preserve his own life or if he was carefully directing her to question her own; she was already thinking about 2008, already grasping at an answer that she'd never really considered. She screwed her eyes shut, blocking out Gene and the bright lights of the kitchen, and thought about that day on the boat, the day her world had come crashing down around her. She could still picture Layton, the way he had ended the phone call and then donned those mirrored sunglasses. Behind her eyes she could still see her reflection, the image of her modern self desperately trying to salvage the situation even as Layton raised his gun towards her, the etchings along the chamber ingrained just as deeply in her memories as they were on the metal, and how he had fired the weapon without even hesitating. There'd been no conscience to hold Layton back, nothing to stop him from pulling the trigger. She could still see the bullet now; could still remember the way her head had exploded at the contact; how - on occasion - it still ached in that very same spot.

She snapped her eyes open, her stomach suddenly souring and the alcohol that lay there desperately trying to escape. She swallowed down the bitter bile that had surged into the back of her throat with a struggle, the awful acidic taste remaining there. Her legs felt weak underneath her and she was sure that the only thing holding her up was the counter behind her. "No," she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head as she spoke, as if she could make it all disappear with one word. "It can't be over..." She had to get back, she had to keep on fighting; Molly needed her.

Gene was still quietly watching her, his gaze awash with sadness and concern. As if he was confirming without words, without ever showing his hand, what now seemed so horribly obvious to her. She was lying on a decrepit boat with a bullet lodged in her head. Layton wasn't going to help her and even if someone had heard the shot and came to her rescue, time was always going to be against her. Her chances of receiving medical attention quick enough were painfully slim. She wasn't going to just get up, dust herself down and walk away from what had happened. Sam had stood a fighting chance; he'd been in a coma in hospital, he'd had sounds and visions to tell him as much and maybe that was why it had been easier for him to return. But she understood now that it wasn't going to happen for her. The only inevitability she'd been avoiding all this time - the only one that mattered anyway - was her own impending death. If she went back it would only be for a few brief seconds and only to die on that boat, cold and alone, without ever seeing Molly again.

Her eyes filled with teary acceptance as the truth about this world, and her place in it, finally sunk in. She held onto her tears, refusing to let them fall as Gene continued to look on silently, his gaze turning unreadable and distorted by the blur of her watery eyes. His thumb stilled its movements and she missed the sensation instantly, the full implications of her actions catching up with her with one action. If only she'd acknowledged sooner that there was no way back for her, before she'd forced herself down this path. Now, not only had she lost all hope of ever going home she had also ruined her only chance of happiness in this world too. Whatever Gene had felt for her just minutes earlier would no longer matter; she'd tried to shoot him, had given him more than enough ammunition to get her thrown out of the force and locked up in the loony bin for whatever time she had left here. Despite all of the logical but brutal reasoning, the tortured soul searching and the sleepless nights that had resulted in her decision she'd ended up losing everything anyway.

The barrel of her gun sparkled at her through her tears and her gaze was drawn towards it like a magnet; the slight movement of her head set the first of her tears free, falling silently onto the kitchen floor, their comrades following relentlessly behind them. An idea flashed into her head as the gun became clearer before her eyes: there was still a way out of this for her, one that didn't involve hurting Gene or anyone else and one that she'd never considered before. If she couldn't go back to Molly, if her life here was now marred by her actions tonight, then there really was no point going on, in staying here. There was some kind of perverse logic that appealed to her in the idea that her life here would end in the same way her other life would: with a bullet to the brain.

She tugged at her hand and it slipped out of his grasp fairly easily. There was the briefest flash of relief behind his eyes at the action and it mirrored her own, though she suspected they were for different reasons. She knew now that if she was going to do this, time was important - the longer she took the less likely she was to go through with it. But she didn't get the chance to raise her arm and the gun much higher than it had already been because his hand was on hers again, forcing it down to her side, stopping her once more. The action drew him closer towards her, close enough to see the anger spill across his face for the first time that night. He'd known exactly what she was about to do.

"Bols," he growled after a moment, his voice low but without the anger she had just witnessed. "It doesn't have to be over."

His hand held her wrist firmly against the kitchen cabinets, his eyes - now much closer - searching her own. Through the mess of her jumbled and tormented thoughts she realised then that she'd been right all along: he was her jailer. Just as he'd stopped her from going home, from going back to a life that no longer existed, he'd also stopped her from succumbing to death in this world too. He'd rescued her from the Cales' freezer when she'd been so close to giving up. He'd stopped her from stepping out onto the road and into the path of the traffic when she'd been so disorientated on that first bewildering day. But she also realised that in keeping her here he was also keeping her safe. This world - and maybe Gene himself - was offering her some kind of sanctuary; she just needed to give in, to stop fighting. She let the gun tumble noisily to the floor, his gaze softening at her submission.

"Gene..." she began, the name sliding off her tongue so very easily but no other words followed. She wanted to apologise, to explain, to ask him the questions that were now floating around her head, but she didn't know where to start. Didn't know how to start without sounding more crazy than she already appeared. As much as she had finally worked out what was happening to her she wasn't sure how much he understood, not just about her but about this world too. About what had really happened tonight. He'd nudged her towards her devastating revelation but was it intentional or not? Did it really matter?

He sighed softly before pulling her towards him and she threw herself onto his chest, physically drained and emotionally spent. Her face came to rest against his neck and she could feel his pulse throbbing against her cheek, could smell the cigarettes, the booze and him. His chest rose and fell against her own as his hands smoothed gently down her back. He still felt so very real to her and all she could find the strength to do was hold on to him, letting her tears fall harder.