I don't own Ashes to Ashes to Ashes

Thanks for all the encouragement so far :)

Glad to see you're all enjoying it, and hope the writing's up to par!

----

When Gene awoke a few hours later, it was to the dim grey light of dawn, with the first rays of morning light breaking through the window and causing his eyes to blur with tiredness. His throat was raw and felt as though it were cracking, dry from the unhealthy combination of dehydration, alcohol and cigarettes. The clothes he had blasted with water had dried out in the night, despite the brisk, cool temperature of the flat, and though he felt that he had deserved each uncomfortable second with his shirt plastered to his back, he was grateful; he couldn't well get home before his meeting with the Super, and it would hardly have done to show up in clothes that were plastered onto him like a second skin.

Sat there in the early morning, Gene became aware, for the first time since fleeing the shooting, of the dull ache in his stomach- it was unmistakeable hunger, but whilst it should have been all-consuming, it seemed only a mild annoyance, albeit one that was bound to make him aggravated. He stood, and sloped into the kitchen without really thinking about it, opening the fridge and pulling faces at the typical array of girl-food; one shelf played host to a wide range of vegetables that Gene could swear he had never before laid eyes upon, whilst another was home to a half-eaten block of blue cheese; he passed over both with distaste, half smiling at the typicality of it all, and half wondering why she even bothered to stock up the fridge on a regular basis when she seemed to only ever eat in Luigi's, anyway.

Another shelf – his favourite, by far - had an open packet of bacon, still containing three rashers, which he instantly pulled out, along with the last two eggs and a tub of margarine. He told himself repeatedly, as he searched for a frying pan, that he would restock the fridge later – as soon as he knew that Alex was awake, and once he felt assured enough to believe that she wasn't going to kill him, he'd buy her ten packets of bacon and even offer to cook it for her...

A loaf of bread sat on the side, and he drew two thick pieces from the packet, smothering them both with the low-fat spread Alex seemed to think was nice, before throwing a large lump of butter into the pan, watching it melt and sizzle before his eyes for a few moments, then tossing the bacon in after it, sighing with apathy as the familiar smell failed to engage him; he felt hungry, but there was no desire to eat anymore- just a strange sense of habit that told him he should do so.

He turned the bacon over when it became pink, and then cracked each egg into the pan, idly poking with the spachelor until it was cooked through. There was little thought in his mind as he moved, making the sandwich in a way that felt rehearsed and dated; bread, bacon, egg, bacon, egg, bacon, bread... It should have made his mouth water; it didn't.

He wanted to feel something, to be vaguely interested in the food he was about to put into his mouth, but he wasn't; at that moment, he couldn't find it in himself to care about anything but Alex at all... When he bit into the sandwich, it felt dry and coarse in his mouth, even though the taste was the same as ever, and the egg was just as runny as it ever had been... He ate without relish, swallowing each mouthful down with a painful gulp, and when he was done, he barely even bothered to polish his fingers off, instead moving to dust off his hands on his trousers, tossing the pan into the washing up bowl as he made to leave.

He'd clean it up before she came home, he told himself. Just as soon as he was back from his meeting with the Super, he'd clean up...

---

The second he stepped through the doors of the station, he felt every pair of eyes in the building turn to look at him; cleaners, plods, a couple of secretaries from the other departments that he didn't even know, and then others that he did- he avoided those eyes determinedly. As he walked by, he felt as though he were an absurd artefact from a museum, as if everyone was scrutinising him, as if they knew each and every detail about his existence and despised him for it...

As he glanced down at himself, he realised that, today of all days, there wasn't much to scrutinize. He hadn't bothered to look in the mirror before he left, but he hadn't needed to do so in order to know he looked like shit; now that he looked, he wished he'd maintained that attitude until a later date. His clothes were rumpled, creased and untidy, the shirt hanging out of his waistband and the tie dangling loose around his neck. His trousers were slightly torn, the knees still stained with Alex's blood, and though the coat had escaped the drenching from the shower the day before, and had therefore not had to dry on his body in a mass of crumples and folds, it was covered in a sheen of dirt and dust. He'd negated fastening the buttons as he had thrown it around his body on the way out of the flat, and now it flapped around behind him as he walked up towards the Super's office, keeping his eyes fixed resolutely ahead of him, carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone he passed, but somehow managing to do so without obeying the insistent impulse to hang his head in shame.

He caught sight of Ray and Chris outside the office to CID, saw Ray's greeting nod of approval, and Chris' nervous gulp before he turned his head away; Gene said nothing, a wave of nausea rising in his stomach, and he walked on.

---

Mac's replacement was a bitter old man who Gene had felt nothing but professional respect for on sight; rumours had flown around when he joined the station that he was a drunk, whose time was spent in dingy strip clubs when he wasn't on duty- to look at him, the stories could easily have been true. He was grey haired, brown eyed, tall, skinny, and the image of a normal man, but with an air of mistrust so pungent, Gene couldn't imagine that any woman would stick around longer than ten minutes after the sex was over. Despite it all, though, there was no denying the fact that the man was a good copper in his day, and Gene's professional respect for him, however reluctant, had soared when he noted the number of cop-killers the man had put away.

Now, as Gene treaded the familiar steps toward Mac's old office, he could feel his stomach turn with worry, with the wish that he hadn't bothered to eat breakfast after all; a copper shooting his own was the lowest form of scum, and he knew it. He'd said it himself on more than one occasion; coppers caught the killer – they didn't go about doing their jobs for them.

Heart in his mouth, Gene knocked the door, shoving his hands into his pockets and gulping hard, hearing the strong "come in" as it drifted towards him. After taking one deep breath, clenching his fingers in his pockets, and attempting to calm his raging heartbeat, he pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar blue coloured room and feeling a bitter wave of sickness overtake him- he hoped desperately that he wouldn't throw up.

"Hunt," Superintendent Jackson said, his voice cold as he nodded his head sourly, before indicating the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

---

Vomit seemed imminent as Gene looked at the callous man before him; he saw nothing but bitter resentment, disappointment, complete shame... And the worst thing, Gene realised, was that he understood only too well that he deserved it, that if it was the other way round, he'd be sinking his fists into the other mans stomach so fast that there wouldn't even be time to say 'traitor', or 'cop-killer', or whatever else they'd call him, because he'd be coughing up blood like a frog with tuberculosis. He wanted to speak, but the knowledge of what he realized he deserved caused the words to catch in his throat, refusing to break through the harsh barrier that his lips had become as he found himself both desperately wishing for that punishment, and simultaneously dreading it..

Gene knew that this was what Jackson wanted; he wanted him to feel about as big as an ant and quiver in his boots, think up all of the worst things that could possibly happen to him and find himself fearing them with every fibre of his being. He'd used the same trick on people so many times it was baffling, but this was different; he'd never understood before, but somehow he found himself thinking that the punishment couldn't possibly be worse than acquittal. He'd been in this position before, and been willing to fight tooth and nail to get himself out of it... but this was worse; when he'd been accused of murder back in Manchester he hadn't been sure it was his doing, but this time- he gulped.

This time, he knew for certain that it had been his bullet that committed the crime, his bullet that tore into flesh and caused blood to spill. There was no denying that he deserved all the loathing that was piling rapidly up against him, and he wondered if Jackson could possibly understand how much he needed it, craved it, wanted it desperately... Because at least then he could feel less as though he were walking away from his responsibilities, from his mistakes; at least then, there would be no falsehood or deception...

But even amongst the dire craving for self-punishment of the bitter old DCI he had become, the naive young copper at the back of his mind - the nineteen year old before he took his first back-hander, the one who was whiter than white and was constantly seeking the approval and respect of his superior officers – hated himself for it; he hated the position in which he found himself, being scorned by a man who should be able to respect him, trust him, rely on him to be a good enforcer of the law, an example to the others on his team and under his command- he hated himself.

He wanted to be the good copper he'd signed up to be- the one who would never, not once in a million years, allow a scrotal little scumbag to get away with crime in favour of an easy name now and again.

He wanted to be the one that turned around and protected his other officers, the one who was willing to lay down his life to stop them coming to any harm, to put them before himself in the heat of the moment.

He wanted to be the sort of copper kids could look up to, who parents could trust, and who his colleagues could respect...

And here he was; dressed in clothes still smeared with his own DI's blood, with his gun in the evidence room down the hall, and an office full of colleagues who were probably collecting money in a tin for flowers to send to Alex at the hospital; 'With all our best wishes', it would read. And beneath it, they would all sign their names... and he knew that his signature would not be among them.

"You should be pleased to hear that DI Drakes condition is stable; she's still in a deep state of coma, but she isn't dead." The Superintendents words were blunt, coarse, and chosen to hit Gene hard; it worked. He flinched away from them as though a whip had been cracked an inch from his face, a large, seemingly immoveable lump forming in his throat as he tried his best to maintain eye contact. The brown eyes that looked back at him were unfaltering and accusatory, and the disappointment in them was evident. With his gaze narrowed, the Superintendent leant forwards on his desk, a cigarette appearing – apparently from nowhere- in his hand, ignited by the fancy lighter he procured from his blazer pocket as he spoke.

"I'm sure Carling told you on the phone, but we've had a witness testify that you were trying to save DI Drake when the bullet was fired..." He paused, taking a drag on his cigarette and exhaling slowly before continuing. "Now, I don't know whether it was a faulty weapon, or whether you flinched like an amateur and pulled the trigger by accident- I don't want to know, either. All I know is that next time you make a death threat, I won't be so lenient when the officer winds up in a coma with her guts on the street and a police bullet in her stomach – understand? If it wasn't for our witness, and the character references I've received from your colleagues and superiors, you'd be wound up in a cell by now looking at life." His eyes were narrow, searching, and Gene refused to flinch again, not breaking eye contact as he nodded his head, the nervous gulp searing down his throat painfully.

"Yes, Sir," he managed, hearing the crack in his own voice, the self-loathing, the guilt... He didn't know if the Super recognised it as such, but for a moment he fooled himself into believing he saw a shred of rekindled respect dawn in the other mans eyes... Then Jackson had nodded, drawing out a cigarette and handing it to Gene in a companionable manner.

Gene took it slowly, nodding his head in silent thanks; it might have seemed like a less-than-severe bollucking, but he knew every word was true, and the message was plain- do it again, Son, the Super was saying, and I'll string you up like a Christmas turkey and let 'em all at you.

Before releasing the cigarette, Jackson spoke again, his voice soft. "You're expected to be here tomorrow, Hunt; sort yourself out, and come back with a clear head in the morning."

Gene nodded once again, and the small conversation was over the moment the cigarette was in his hand; he was dismissed with a jerk of the head, and he left.

----

The moment he was outside the office, the lighter was out, the cigarette held between shaking fingers at his lips, even before he'd turned down the corridor. He took a swift exit, pausing only to collect the keys to the Quattro from Viv, ignoring the look of mistrust in the other mans eyes before he left the station, his coat flapping behind him as he descended the steps and slid into the familiar front seat, fighting back a wave of nausea at the sight of his driving gloves, now home to Alex's dried blood; he pushed them into the glove compartment, bit back a mouthful of vomit, and then sped off, attempting to forget himself as the engine roared into life.

---

He'd contemplated showing up at the hospital dressed just as he was, wanting so desperately to see her face and make sure the machine was still echoing the soft beat of her heart that he was only around the corner when he glanced down at his overcoat; he was covered in dust, his trousers were filthy, and his shirt was a complete crumpled mess... he looked, in honesty, like the tramp who sometimes sat outside the station and begged for change.

He hadn't shaved, and his five o'clock shadow - though previously as numb as the rest of him- was beginning to itch at his skin painfully. His eyes were shot with blood, and though he didn't feel tired – he didn't truly feel anything at the moment except guilt – he knew he had bags beneath them which would give Santa's sack a run for its money.

He was haggard; he knew it, and he hated it, but as much as he wanted to see her, to be sure she was alive and not just fooling them all, he doubted the nurse would let him in again when he looked as un-presentable as he did now.

With a clenched jaw, and a crack of the knuckles, Gene spun the car around sharply, heading quickly towards the opposite side of town, and his own flat.

----

As he tossed the keys onto the kitchen table, Gene sighed, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell of damp, at the sight of the undisguised evidence that he only ever came here to sleep, wash and change his clothes. His living room – all but empty except for the single armchair and television set – was cold, dark, and smelt of stale cigarettes. The spare tie that he'd folded a few nights ago lay over the back of the armchair, and he blinked at the realization that he hadn't been here at all since the night that he and Alex had sat so companionably on her sofa, drinking red wine and getting steadily pissed... His fingers traced the silk of the tie lightly, arms braced against the back of the chair as he stared into the black emptiness of the television screen.

The room felt empty, bland, and deserted; the smells and the warmth that inhabited Alex's home were nowhere to be found. He found no comfort in the scent of his flat, no reassurance in the single beer bottle that was knocked over next to his chair, and most definitely nothing in the damp coolness of the fabric on the back of the seat itself; he felt distant, lost, and well and truly alone.

With a sigh, he pushed away from the chair, walking through to the bathroom, stripping off quickly and stepping under the lukewarm water. He washed swiftly, but thoroughly, before getting out, wrapping himself in a towel and drying himself, and then pulling on a pair of boxers and a vest. It was barely fifteen minutes before he was slipping underneath his duvet, and shivering in the chill of the room.

He didn't want to sleep; the idea of what might await him in the dark dredges of his mind was horrifying, and he was terrified of seeing Alex's fallen body again, of watching the colour drain from her skin and the lights fade from her eyes... He shook himself back to the present, attempting to bleach out the sight of her blood on his hand, reaching over to the bedside table and opening the cupboard at its base; the bottle of single malt he kept there was unopened, and had cost him an arm and a leg- he'd not touched it in 4 years, claiming that it was only for emergencies, or celebrations... and although he longed for it to be the latter, he couldn't deny that the cold, aching grief that gripped him would most assuredly classify as an emergency.

He broke the cap, taking the bottle between his lips and drinking deeply; it seared down his throat without pain, and though a small part of his brain registered the taste as being better than his usual, he didn't really take notice, screwing the cap back on and feeling the strong liquor hit his bloodstream, calming him down, slowing his breathing... He placed the bottle down on the table, settling himself onto his side, one arm beneath the pillow, eyes open as he stared at the plain walls of his bedroom, his body numb.

He used to imagine her next to him when he fell to sleep; he used to dream about what it would feel like to hold her in his arms as he drifted into slumber, what her hair would smell like, and how her head would rest perfectly above the pounding of his heart... Today, he couldn't bring himself to think of anything at all.

Inevitable tiredness tugged at his eyelids, and they drooped downwards against his will. He wanted to stay awake, too scared of what he might be led to think of in the unpredictable and unstable fortress of sleep, but his body won out the battle with his mind, and in minutes, with the whiskey he had taken to calm his shot nerves still noticeably soothing in his bloodstream, he was asleep, his fist clenched tight beneath the pillow, the bones of his knuckles cracking with pressure.

---

She was in her hospital bed, surrounded by flowers- expensive bouquets adorned every surface, with cards from well-wishers, colleagues and friends. A little girl sat on the bed, holding Alex's hand, and she turned to Gene with thunder in her eyes.

She was Alex; she had to be. Alex's face, Alex's unmistakeable cheekbones, her delicate nose, her hazel eyes, her brown hair... She was Alex in junior form – she was so familiar, he couldn't possibly be mistaken; Gene gulped.

It could have been her daughter, he supposed in hindsight, but he didn't think any more on the subject as she started to rant, her voice identical to Alex's despite the twenty-something years age difference, her arms flying around in the very same mannerism Alex had seemed to master in adulthood.

"You killed her!" She screamed, "You didn't believe her and you killed her! She's dead because of you!" At the last, the little girl walked forwards, growing several inches taller and jabbing him firmly in the chest. "Are you happy now? Has your little vendetta worn off? It's not her fault you're a misogynistic, alcoholic bastard with a lardy stomach and an obsession with cigarettes! You could have listened to her, couldn't you? Could have asked her to explain before you threw her out, before you took her badge away and left her undefended! Where was the Gene Genie then? Hey?! Where was the Gene Genie when Alex needed him? Off shagging a cheap trollop, weren't you? A pathetic mimic of what you really wanted, because she-" at this, the young Alex jerked her head in the sleeping Alex's direction, "had more sense! She wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last man on earth! And now she's dead, and it's your fault! Just because she didn't want you!"

The girl disappeared with a crack, and suddenly the room was filled with nurses, each one tending to a different, slowly withering plant, their hands holding onto large watering cans as they slowly tipped them upwards, the water sliding easily out of each individual nozzle... But as Gene watched, the water turned red, thickening slightly, pouring into the soil and turning the deadened white lilies the colour of blood. The nurses all pulled away in the same synchronised motion, scarlet blood dripping onto the sterile white floor as they made to leave, apparently unhindered by the blood they left in their wakes.

In the midst of it all, Gene's eyes turned towards the bed; Alex was covered head-to-toe in a white blanket, done in the exact same way he had witnessed a hundred times, whenever a dead body had been discovered at a crime scene.

The sheet was clean, except for the rapidly spreading patch of red above the stomach; it began as nothing but a small drop, but as his eyes fixed upon it, it seemed to grow, seeping into the blanket, turning the whole thing a deep, bloody scarlet... Vomit rose in his throat, and the young girls' words echoed in his ears – "you killed her! You killed her! It's your fault!"

The room disappeared around him, but still the tirade continued, the words growing louder, and louder, and louder...

Gene sat up with a start, the bed sheets sticking to his skin as cold sweat covered his body in a thin sheen, the words still thundering in his ears and echoing ethereally around the room. His chest heaved, and he inhaled sharply, feeling the air rip through his lungs painfully as he did so. His heart was pounding in his ears, the blood pumping so violently that the he could see the veins in his arms pulsating, feel the pressure of each individual thump as he looked at it, his throat tight with guilt as he wondered if his dream had in fact been a reflection of reality; had Alex died?

He'd heard a couple of people in the past suggest that they knew when someone close to them passed away; one had woken in the middle of the night, a few hours before the body of his brother had been found, shooting bolt upright in bed and finding himself unable to sleep until the phone had rung, and the news had been delivered.

The logic behind his assumption was minimal; just because he had woken up was no sign of Alex's fate. It was just after one in the afternoon, and it was a complete rarity for Gene to ever be in bed at this hour, so the fact he had awakened was evidently inconclusive... Nonetheless, he found himself out of bed in a matter of seconds, briefly considering getting dressed straight away, but deciding against it; he stank of sweat and panic, and the last thing he wanted was to waltz in and see Alex with a bad stink to follow his guilty conscience- he went back into the bathroom for another shower.

He washed quickly, not wanting to allow himself time to think; he counted back from one hundred and absently recited song lyrics that he had forgotten he even knew, playing the tunes over and over in his brain in order to counteract the nagging insistence that said he should be thinking of something different, something involving Alex and her wound and-

With a quick movement, he had turned the previously warm shower down to freezing, feeling the cold liquid hit his skin and run in rivulets down his back. He shivered and shook, his whole body going rigid against the chill; he ran the water until he was numb, then jerked it back to hot, still shivering even as the warm water cascaded onto his body. Even when the chill had gone, he could feel himself shaking and quivering,, stepping out and enveloping himself in a large towel, dressing quickly and running a comb through his hair before leaving the flat and clambering back into the Quattro, blasting the radio up to full volume as he pressed his foot down on the pedal and swerved out of its parking spot.

---

The nurse waved him by with a sigh, immediately returning to her duties and busying herself with a stack of paperwork the moment she saw his badge. He hesitated slightly, eyeing the door to Alex's room with trepidation building up in the pit of his stomach. His breakfast was still churning in his gut, and Gene briefly considered that it had been a bad idea to eat when he was so unsure of what to expect of the day ahead. His eyes caught a brief glimpse of red as a nurse moved around within the room, and panic clenched at his chest; a moment later, he'd pushed through the door, his throat dry and hands clamming with sweat as he swept into the room.

He stopped short as the nurse turned around, smiling warmly at him for a few moments, before returning to the careful arrangement of the bright bouquet of red and white roses that stood on the bedside table. He blinked, glancing at Alex; she lay as still as she had the day before, various tubes protruding from her body, the make-up now removed from her skin, hair hanging loosely around her face. The pressure on his heart lessened instantly, and as his eyes drifted down the white blanket which covered her, he saw no sign of blood... He breathed a sigh of relief, walking with renewed slowness towards her bed, his hand resting an inch from hers as he took her in.

She looked beautiful, he realized. Any doubts he might have had about Alex's natural beauty were put to rest in that moment; her hair was shining with its normal brown and hazel glow, her face was peaceful, calm, with her soft lips -though slightly chapped- looking every bit the image of a fairytale princess. It was with an odd, unbidden sense of longing that he found himself wanting to bend down and take those lips with his own, to suck the lower lip between both of his and slowly kiss her back to consciousness, just as they did in all of the most famous fairytales... He looked away, seeing the nurses' tentative smile and tilting his head towards Alex in question.

"How is she?"

The nurse smiled warmly, joining him beside Alex and carefully re-tucking the blankets around her body. "She's stable," she said softly, smiling up at him. "That's a good start."

"How long 'til she... y'know..?" Gene waved his hand absently and gulped, glancing at Alex nervously.

"It's hard to say," the nurse answered sympathetically, and with a tone of complete understanding. "It could be tonight; it could be years. It really is just a case of waiting it out, I'm afraid." She touched his arm lightly, the kind gesture surprising him out of the well of misery he seemed to plummet into at her words; the last thing he had expected after getting Alex stuck here, was to receive kindness and consolidation, least of all from one of the women looking after her. "Talk to her," she said softly, "tell her you're here... I'm sure she'd like to know."

"Ain't like she can 'ear me though, is it?" Gene said sourly, absently touching his thumb to the back of Alex's hand, rubbing gentle patterns into the skin. "Just like talkin' to a shell, ain't it?"

The nurse shrugged, "it's proven to help; sometimes, after people wake up, they say they could hear people talking – that they just needed something to come back to." She smiled again, gently rubbing his arm once more before leaving the room. Gene didn't even glance up as she left, hooking his ankle around the leg of the plastic chair behind him and sinking into it, his thumb still tracing light movements across Alex's hand.

"Is that true, Bolly?" He murmured, watching her face intently, half-expecting a flicker of movement behind the eyes, or the tug of a smile at her lips; there was nothing. "D'you need something to come back to?" he asked softly, glancing down at her hand as he spoke again. "'cause I'm 'ere, Bols... I wanna say somethin'... Gotta say sorry... I mean, I've got a great big bolluckin' to give yer after that an' all, but yer wouldn't wanna miss the Gene Genie apologising..."

She didn't respond, and he sighed, hanging his head and glancing at the card beside the large bouquet of roses. He gritted his teeth as he saw the signature at the bottom, and couldn't resist snatching it up to read.

The card was handmade, with a large smiley face cut from bright yellow card, stuck on the front of a folded piece of red A4 card, a slightly trimmed piece of paper stuck in the middle, with a note written in flowing script that made Gene grind his teeth in annoyance.

Alex,

I was so sorry to hear about your accident- life has been hectic, but as soon as you're out of hospital, you are welcome to come round for dinner with myself and little Alex – she wants to take after you and become a Police Officer when she's older, and would love to see you. Until then, you're in our thoughts.

Get well soon,

Yours,

Evan

Gene might have been tempted to screw the damn thing up and set it on fire, except for the small scrawl of Alex Price set beside her godfathers' name, followed by three large kisses, and a smiley face. He felt his lip twitch at the sight, and gently placed the card back down, although he turned it around enough that the inside wasn't visible from his position in the chair. He looked back at the sleeping Alex, the sight of her cracked lips wrenching his gut as they seemed to bleed slightly. Without thinking, he reached over, brushing the small droplet away with a tender touch, convincing himself that she would wake up, just as she had in Chaz Kale's restaurant when he touched her cheek... She didn't move.

He sighed, glancing at the droplet of scarlet on his thumb, a fresh wave of guilt threatening to crush him into oblivion. Somehow, he found that the delicate helplessness of her lying here peacefully was worse than when she had been bleeding on the floor, her mouth agape, her gasping so pronounced to his ears that he had wanted to cover them up, to stop himself hearing her painful murmurs, her half-sobs of desperation... He tucked his thumb gently around hers, tracing the length of her delicate hand with its tip as he shifted slightly closer to the bed, teeth piercing his lip as he fought desperately to find the words to speak, to apologise, to bring her back...

"Bols..." he started, his voice cracked and strained as he tightened his thumb around hers. "I need yer to-"

At that moment, the door opened, and a second later Gene was on his feet, two metres back from the bed, his hands shoved guiltily in his pockets as Shaz tentatively poked her head around the door, still dressed in her work uniform; he realized, with a pronounced wave of gratitude, that she'd taken a break to come here. She smiled at him nervously, stepping into the room with a large bouquet of lilies in her hands, which she tenderly placed on the bed as she looked at Alex nervously, the silence descending on them as Gene nervously looked at the floor, his hands still deep in his pockets, Adams apple rising and falling as he gulped. Shaz glanced worriedly from him to Alex before she spoke, her voice almost nervous as she addressed him.

"Y'know, Guv," she said softly, "what they say 'bout being able to hear people when you're- when you're in a coma, like... it's true, y'know?"

Gene snorted, stepping slightly closer to the bed and looking resolutely at Alex's face as Shaz spoke. "Sure it is." He muttered. "An' I'm bloody Brit Ekland."

Shaz looked at him carefully, a sad smile on her lips. "It's true," she said softly, turning her gaze to Alex as she murmured, "I could hear everythin' people were sayin' to me when I was stabbed – not so clear with Ma'am an' Ray, but could 'ear Chris clear as day..." she risked a careful glance at his worried face before murmuring softly to him, "she can probably hear you clearest an' all, Guv."

Gene's head shot up, his eyes seeking out Shaz's, only to have her avert her gaze and quietly address Alex. "Bought you some flowers, Ma'am," she said, her voice soft as she smiled down at Alex's sleeping form. "From all of us – even Ray chipped in a bit! Gunna go get you a vase... but the Guv's here; he's gunna talk to you while I'm gone." She sent him a nervous, yet similarly encouraging smile, patting Alex's wrist lightly before leaving the room, not daring to glance back.

Gene stared at her retreating form for a brief moment, before slowly shifting closer to the bed, returning his hand to its previous position next to hers, his thumb tucked once again around her own as he ventured to speak, voice cracking nervously. "She right, Bols?" He asked, slowly sinking himself back into to chair he had abandoned, his lips and throat dry as he spoke. "Can you 'ear me? 'cause I don't much fancy sittin' 'ere like a lummox if yer gunna lie there an' snore for a couple o' days..." He glanced towards the door, seeing Shaz talking quietly with one of the nurses; there was no vase in her hands, and so he assumed she would be a few minutes yet. Turning back to Alex, he spoke again. "Granger thinks yer can 'ear me, Bolly... an' I dunno if she's talkin' out of 'er arse or not, but... well... if yer can..." he tentatively slid his hand under hers, closing his fingers gently on her hand as he went on, "if yer can, squeeze me 'and... just... just squeeze it, 'ey?" He waited, looking down at their joined hands for a moment, feeling a wave of mixed emotions; warmth, happiness, joy, bitterness, guilt, aching pain, yearning... He wanted her to awaken, wanted her to come back to him – just him, he realized – and find their hands entwined... Subconsciously, he squeezed at her delicate hand, still transfixed by the simple knowledge of how well they fit together.

It shouldn't have surprised him; he'd held her hand before, though never for quite so long. Always for brief snatches of time, one of them desperately trying to prevent the other from jumping headlong into a life-threatening situation... The memory of the way she had grasped at his hand in Luigi's the very night Shaz had been stabbed leapt to the forefront of his mind, and he gulped, squeezing her fingers lightly once again. He was well aware of the fact her hand was smaller and more delicate than his own, and that his own hand could envelop hers without really trying. He remembered back to the kitchen only weeks ago, where she had collapsed on the floor and relented to being lifted to her feet by his hand in hers, tugging her upwards and into his arms... He ground his teeth slightly, before turning back to her, his hands clamming slightly as sweat gathered.

"I'm sorry, Bolly... I'll come see yer tomorrow." He stood up quickly, hesitating slightly before he delivered a gentle, tentative pat to Alex's wrist, holding his hand in place for a few moments before he made to leave. As if on cue, Shaz entered the moment he reached the door, clasping a glass vase in her fingers.

"See yer tomorrow, Granger," Gene murmured, nodding curtly at her as he went to leave. Shaz smiled shakily, trying to meet his eyes.

"You could always come down to Luigi's, Guv," she said quietly, looking at him with knowing eyes. He looked down, nodding at the sudden realization that they all knew where he had spent the night; with a quick glance at her face, however, he saw nothing but complete understanding – there was no judgement, no blame, just complete sympathy... He hated it.

A moment later, he'd turned away, leaving the door to swing shut behind him as he turned down the corridor. He didn't miss Shaz's sigh as she turned back to Alex and covered her hand, and nor did he miss the words that left her mouth as she did so.

"Come back soon, Ma'am; the Guv's gunna tear himself to pieces at this rate."

----

Hope you enjoyed it :)

Big thank you to Feline for beta-ing :)

Mage of the Heart