Sunlight is streaming in through the window as I open my eyes, finding that my fingers are still clasped in Gene's and that he's on his side, snoring like a rhino with catarrh. Smiling to myself at how some things never change, I give a one-armed stretch and look round as Liam walks in with a tray of breakfast, giving me a small smile as he sets it down next to me. Slightly burnt toast, just the way I like it, with my favourite blackberry jam topping it.
"Someone's got it right," I say appraisingly, reaching out to nab a slice and stuff it into my mouth, suddenly ravenous. As I wipe crumbs from my mouth Liam bursts out laughing, sitting down next to me and taking a KitKat out of his pocket, accompanied by a Mars bar and a Cadbury's Flake.
"You look like you enjoyed tha'," he chuckles, biting down on the KitKat, spraying crumbs everywhere as he speaks, a little like Gene when he's in a hurry. I grin through another mouthful and instantly regret it, covering my mouth hurriedly, but Liam just chuckles and carries on munching himself.
"I like a woman 'oo likes her food."
I give Liam a sideways look, unsure of whether he's hitting on me or not. He shakes his head quickly, his eyes widening at his realisation.
"Oh no, no, you're Uncle Gene's. Don't worry, I know that."
He glances down at his uncle on the bed, his eyes taking in the dead-to-the-world man, who now thankfully has stopped snoring.
"He deserves a good woman after what 'appened with 'im and Marie. God, that was a bad business, that was- an' I always knew she was no good for 'im. Still, wasn't their fault what 'appened, an' Gene wasn' exactly the 'omely sort anyway, out at all hours. The one thing Gene did was defend 'is honour; 'e never 'ad any pieces on the side. 'E pretended to once, some undercover thing back in Manchester, but really 'e just tied 'er up an' gagged 'er an' went back afterwards to explain. Back with 'is Sam Tyler… oh, those were the days, those were."
I cock my head to one side, letting him talk, watching as his eyes light up with the memories of life back in Manchester, of the Manc Lion back in his home jungle. His hands fly through the air, and my expression, when it's not too busy bulging with toast and blackberry jam, takes on suitable expressions, either laughing or gasping or shocked or quietly amused or horrified at some of the tales.
"Ray got caught in a car bomb?"
"An' 'e was back at work the same day. Ray's a determined bugger, just wants to impress 'is Guv from what I've 'eard."
"You're not far wrong there, no…"
A thought strikes me so hard I drop the rest of the toast, yelping out loud; Liam jumps about five feet in the air, and Gene stirs sleepily, sitting up and asking what I made that bloody noise for.
"The rest of the team! What've they been told? They'll be devastated if they've been told that Gene's dead, you can't tell them that, and what have the media been told? There was extensive media coverage of the whole case-"
"Alex, calm down," Liam butts in quickly, grabbing me by the shoulders. Gene grasps my hand and starts gently stroking my wrist, which for some reason always seems to calm me down.
"I'm sorry to 'ave to tell you this, but the team 'ave been told that Gene died in the night an' 'is body 'as been taken for post-mortem examinations. The excuse for your disappearance is that you're deeply traumatised by 'is death an' 'ad to be sedated for your own good, and are bein' kept in isolation in another 'ospital until you've recovered. Understandably the team are upset, but these aren't fluffy bunny rabbits we're dealin' with, these are 'ardened criminals 'oo wouldn't 'esitate to kill you an' Gene if they found you. 'Opefully you understand the risks attached to these operations."
I nod, seeing Gene do the same out of the corner of my eye, wiping sleep from his eyelashes but his face alert, solemn.
Liam gives us a brief, slightly strained smile; suddenly the energy and life is gone from him, replaced by a man who looks and seems weary, the sparkle dimmed in his bright aqua eyes, the curve vanished from his lips as he turns and examines Gene gently, checking the drip is still in his wrist, giving him a one-armed hug to say good morning and going out to fetch some food for him. Gene's still almost permanently tired, but he's improving tenfold and he's certainly much better than he was back in the hospital, despite the turbulence of his trip here.
The long hours seem to drag; with no contact with the outside world minus the TV on its brackets on the wall, I try talking with Gene, fishing a notepad out from somewhere in my bag and playing a game or two of Hangman with him. His words I don't guess- "Manchester" and "Fenchurch", despite them being so familiar- but he gets "psychology" and "psychiatry" straight away. I try to hide my surprise as he sits back with a satisfied grin and claims the prize- the Mars bar Liam brought in and left on the bedside table. Liam returns just as Gene throws the last bit into his mouth, observes his uncle with a disgruntled expression, mutters that he was looking for that and leaves, presumably to get another one. I almost wet myself laughing at the look on his face.
"I didn't think chocolate was that important," I cough, Gene smirking to himself at the sight of me.
"You obviously don' know us Hunt men as well as you thought you did, then, Bolls. Chocolate's our bloody panacea, along with whisky an' fags."
I smile to myself.
"I'm pretty certain you didn't use words like "panacea" before I came along, Gene. Seems like I'm having an impact!"
Gene abruptly turns a surprisingly deep shade of red and becomes very interested in the hem of his pyjama top.
As soon as Bolly leaves to go to the loo, I sink back onto the bed, my thoughts turning abruptly to my team. I let her persuade me to play a poofter game- she never thought I'd beat her at Hangman, but as I always say, I'm a man of many talents- to keep the thoughts at bay, the memories that I knew would come as soon as I wasn't doing something.
Ray, Chris and Shaz. They've been told I'm dead…
I try to imagine CID as it might be now. Ray would be in his bloody ancient funeral-style suit, trying half-heartedly to joke with the others, his face sombre when it's finished its attempt at laughter. Chris sitting at his desk as usual, eyes downcast, not looking up at all, not joining in with the laughter. Shaz in black, watery eyes not making contact with anyone else's, trying hard not to cry and look like a weak woman in CID. The DCs all clustered around, making an effort to make conversation, knowing that whatever they say, it'll fall on ears that aren't interested. Would someone be talking about me? Would they be remembering their Guv, the things I did, cases I solved, the famous Guv-and-Ma'am confrontations that I'm almost starting to miss?
A pang goes through my stomach as I realise that this isn't some scene in my imagination; this is what's actually happening out there. They're actually bloody mourning. For me. Bloody hell, that seems so weird, especially when I'm still alive. Wouldn't seem quite so odd if I was actually dead.
Bolly comes back in, or at least, I think she did; it takes five attempts for her to rouse me out of my thoughts and bring me back into the semblance of the real world I've found myself in.
"Earth to Planet Hunt!" she laughs, sitting down next to me and wiping her hands on her skirt, making some half-arsed complaint about the hand towel dispenser being empty. I can't take my eyes off her slender, slightly soapy hands, glistening in the strong light from the window, sliding gently down the dark red material of her skirt, stuttering slightly in their fluent arc due to the grip from the cloth on her hands.
"Typical man," Bolly tuts, but the edges of her mouth are curved into a smile and she just sits down and reaches out for the TV remote, turning it on so as to create something to do.
BBC News at Eight O'Clock comes on, the familiar theme tune like a friend giving me a little wave from the middle of a huge crowd of strangers, a little reassurance that lets me know I'm still in the real world, at least for now.
Some armed robbery on the other side of Bristol in which a man died is one of the main articles; the man was the recently elected mayor of the town, who was shot in the bank while trying to take some money out to buy his wife a birthday present. Alex beside me is sighing at the tragedy of it all; I curse the incompetent bloody idiots who let it happen in the first place and the robbers, one of whom has been caught.
A fire in Northumberland which has destroyed a whole high street but luckily killed no-one. A rapist is sentenced in a court for raping a young girl; I'd heard about the case somewhere before, vaguely remembered it.
The newsreader shuffles his papers before starting the next article, his face changing from one solemn to another.
"A London police officer has died in hospital after being held hostage by an ex police officer on his own patch. Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt died from injuries given to him by the as of yet unnamed man and the effects of an overdose of hospital sedative administered to him by the attacker. He is due to be given a police state funeral after a post-mortem has determined exactly what the cause of death was. Detective Inspector Alex Drake has been hospitalised due to severe grief-induced trauma; the rest of DCI Hunt's team have paid public tributes to him, saying that he had "a lion's heart" and was "like a father to all of them in CID". The Chief Commissioner has also paid tribute to him, saying his courage was "unrivalled in the police force" and "a great attribute of his". This is yet another blow for the Metropolitan Police Force's death toll, which has been rising in recent years. DCI Hunt was well-known in his area, and has been described as "one of the best coppers this patch has ever had" by many of the people living in Fenchurch East's radius."
I could barely believe it.
BBC News was broadcasting my supposed death on the Eight O'Clock News, for the entire country to see, with "tributes" from my officers and from the Chief Commissioner personally saying something about me.
I felt like screaming.
Instead of that, I just turned the TV off, leaning back and groaning, accepting Bolly's hand in mine and wondering when in my memory the world had turned to shit.
I think Gene seeing his own death broadcast shook him a bit; he's now lying back, his eyes closed, letting me hold onto his hand but showing no other signs of consciousness. Liam comes in and tiptoes back out again after I mouth what's happened, taking the TV remote with him so that Gene won't be tempted to turn the TV on again. If Gene had seen, he would probably have been indignant at being treated like some kind of child, but as it is, I doubt he'd taken anything in of his nephew's visit.
"Gene?" I murmur tentatively, reaching out again, putting my hand on his arm, trying to rouse him. He shakes his head and gently throws me off, and understanding that he needs to be alone with his own thoughts but wouldn't tell me so in a million years, I stand up and go outside, softly closing and locking the door behind me, taking no chances with his safety.
I can hear Liam on the phone a little way away; his words are indistinct, but his tone is slightly threatened, as if he's on the phone to someone he doesn't really want to talk to. I creep towards him, on my toes to create minimum noise with my killer stilettos, tuning in as well as I can to his conversation even though I know I shouldn't really be eavesdropping on Liam's private conversations.
"'E's 'ere. I've got 'im 'idden, an' the press think 'e's dead. You can come an' collect 'im if you want. I'll take care o' the woman 'e's with, she's small fry, should be worth a couple o' punches if she's 'ard enough. The big prey's Uncle Gene."
My breath catches in my dry throat.
He's talking about giving Gene up to someone. Someone who doesn't sound friendly.
No longer caring about sound, I turn on my heel and run towards the room again, demanding that the door be opened, almost flying in and ripping the cardio monitor off Gene's arm, the drip coming off afterwards, carefully eased out by my shaking fingers.
Gene watches in astonishment.
"What's all this about, Bolls?"
I don't even pause in grabbing his jacket and draping it over his body, yanking my bag with his clothes in from under my chair and pulling him upright.
"We've got to get out of here- now."
A/N: Once again, sorry for the delay, and for those of you who haven't checked out "Living Without Gene", it would be a huge favour to me if you did and I would thank you very, very much. Please drop me a review, you would be amazing if you did :D Thank you for reading! Jazzola :)