Disclaimer: I still don't own Ashes to Ashes. Even though I'd asked Santa very nicely…

When I posted Chapter 10, I anticipated a gap of 3-4 weeks before the next chapter. Instead, due my well-publicised personal difficulties, it's been over seven months. I'm desperately sorry for the break in service – one reason why I've found it so difficult to restart this story is that this next chapter is very fluffy, and fluff has been the last thing I could take. But as this is a Christmas chapter, it seems as good a time as any to get this story relaunched. To remind you what's been going on, here's a brief story so far:

Post-series 3, Alex has returned to Fenchurch East with the blessing of "Authority upstairs" at the Railway Arms. She and Gene are now living together, and they are developing their new recruit, DI Jason Collins (iPhone man). Jason has his own link to the Geneverse: in the real world, his father, who died before he was born, was DC Ray Carling. Jason, like Sam and Alex before him, is determined to change the past: in his case, to stop his mother taking to drink and giving his six-year-old self up to his grandfather (Ray's father). In the meantime, he is getting on very well with Shaz's replacement, WPC Lisa Craven.

When the story broke off, Gene has whisked Alex away for Christmas in a Peak District cottage owned by hotelier Gerald Sharkey, an associate from Manchester days. Jason and Lisa are spending Christmas Day doing voluntary work at the local hospital when they catch a thief stealing drugs. They are assisted in their arrest by one DCI Frank Morgan of the Metropolitan Police, Discipline and Complaints…

Now we get back to Gene and Alex…

Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 10 long ago, and I'm sorry that I never replied to you individually. If you can forgive me for the gap, reviews would be a wonderful Christmas present!

Curled up together in the deep, soft, massive bed, their naked bodies entwined, neither wanted to get up on Christmas morning. But at last Alex disentangled herself from Gene, leaving him grumbling sleepily at the loss of her, and threw the bedclothes back.

"Wassallthehurry?" he mumbled.

"Someone has to get up, or we don't get any Christmas dinner," she said with mock severity.

"Hm. Mightaveapointthere." He burrowed deeper into the bed and went back to sleep. Alex showered, dressed, brewed up some black coffee and left a cup on the bedside table, close to Gene's nose where it protruded from the blankets, and headed back to the kitchen to put the oven on. A few moments later, Gene was awakened by a cry coming from the living room. He leapt out of bed, flung on his robe, and raced out there. Alex was on her knees in front of the fireplace. Hearing him behind her, she looked up, her eyes full of tears.

"Gene - the stocking - you - ?"

"Er, yeah, I did that last night." He felt monumentally embarrassed. "I, uh, had much the same idea myself, knowing 'ow you keep Molly's clothes on the peg back 'ome, so I got Susie to buy some things. Saw you'd left the stocking out last night, so I bunged 'em in."

"Thank you," she choked. "Thank you so much. It means so much to me."

"Come 'ere, Bols." He hauled her to her feet, lifted her onto the sofa, and held her close while she cried. It was a short, intense burst, and after a few minutes she wiped her eyes and forced a smile.

"Let's see what you gave her. I'll have to open it for her."

He unhooked the stocking and brought it over to her, and she upended it, spilling the contents onto the sofa. She was teary-eyed again as she looked at the collection of pretty trifles Susie had bought. A plastic floral bracelet, handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers, cassettes of Spandau Ballet and Shakin' Stevens, hair ribbons, enamelled slides, a small Rubik Cube, paperbacks of pony stories, a 1984 diary, sweets and chocolate, woollen gloves, a little figurine of a ballet dancer. It brought home to her, how much more innocent childhood was in that day and age. Her vastly more sophisticated daughter would probably scorn most of these offerings as kids' stuff.

"Thank you," she whispered, looking up at Gene. "If - if she were here, I know she'd be so pleased that you thought of her."

He looked relieved. "Thank God for that. Didn't know what she'd 'ave wanted."

"Well, a lot of the time she's into singers who are children now or haven't been born yet, and technology which won't be invented for years," Alex admitted. "Children in 2008 are very different to what they are now. But if she were a 1980s child, she'd have loved these, I know." She sighed deeply, and looked away for a moment. "I'll get breakfast started and put the oven on. You have your coffee and get dressed."

He nodded, understanding that she needed to be alone for a few minutes. By the time he entered the kitchen, she was halfway through her breakfast, and looked back to normal. Her wounds were still too raw to be exposed to the air for long. She had had to bury her sorrow deep within her, so that she could continue with her life. She looked up and smiled as he came in, and he knew, once again, how deeply she needed him. He was her only reason for living in that world.

"You sit down. I've cooked your breakfast for you."

"Eh?" When he got up late, she usually expected him to get his own breakfast.

She gave him her most enigmatic smile. "Make the most of today, Gene. As a Christmas present, for one day only, I am going to fulfil your philosophy of the opposite sex."

His jaw dropped. "You mean - ?"

She parked a fry-up and more coffee in front of him. "Yes. Maid in the living room, cook in the kitchen - "

"Whore in the - "

"That bit comes later."

"Bloody 'ell!"

"Not that the cooking should be too stressful. The turkey crown's already been dressed and stuffed, and the cranberry sauce and bread sauce have already been made up. Once you've finished breakfast, you can watch the TV until lunch is ready. Then I can be your maid in the living room."

If she had been expecting objections and insistences that he would help, she would have been doomed to disappointment, but she knew her man's limitations well enough. This was Gene, and he was quite happy to slump on the sofa all morning, drinking beer and watching television, casting appreciative glances at the kitchen whenever she came into view. Somewhat to his disappointment, her "special clothes" did not include a saucy maid's outfit, but she wore a fetching white apron over her jumper and jeans while she was cooking, and shortly before dinner was ready she slipped away to change into a gauzy, full-length, long-sleeved gown made of black chiffon shimmering with thin threads of silver, tied at the waist with a silver sash. She looked like black ice, Gene thought in a rare poetic moment, before mentally castigating himself for being a wet, sentimental twonk.

Sharkey had left them silver tableware, a fine white linen tablecloth and napkins, and a silver candelabrum. Laying the table, she reflected that all this finery would be largely lost on Gene. He would be just as happy with a formica-topped table and stainless steel cutlery. But if he was prepared to put up with this splendour for her sake today, she would repay the compliment in the New Year by going with him to his favourite curry house, Raj's in the Old Kent Road, without once complaining about the food, the service, or the bent forks. Their love did not change the fact that they were very different people. Their relationship would still need a lot of give-and-take to make it work.

She was gratified to see how impressed Gene looked when she led him to the table, decked out in all its magnificence, with the candles burning brightly. The turkey crown was done to a turn, nestling in a ring of perfectly cooked roast potatoes, with bowls of sprouts and parsnips and sauceboats of cranberry sauce, bread sauce and gravy laid along the table. He reached for the carving knife, but Alex forestalled him.

"No, Sir. Don't you remember that I'm your maid today? I'll carve."

"Oh. Shouldn't you be eating in the servants' 'all, then?"

Her eyes widened innocently. "Oh, no, sir. On Christmas Day, the servants eat with the masters."

God, the inflection she'd put into that word. Masters. He shifted in his chair, watching as those delicate, skilful hands wielded the carvers, deftly cutting slices from the turkey with the precision of a surgeon using a scalpel. Those hands... bloody hell, at this rate he'd be lucky to last through dinner without jumping her.

"Looks like you've nicked one of your mistress's dresses to me."

Her eyes gleamed wickedly as she set his loaded plate in front of him. "Oh, no, Sir. I'm the mistress. Remember what Jason said when he first saw us together?"

"Right." He slammed his fork down. "Shut up, you daft tart, or you won't get any Christmas dinner. I'll be draggin' you into the bedroom for the rest of the day."

Bugger the woman, how could she look so innocent and yet tempt him so much? "I'm so sorry, Sir. Hasn't my service been to your liking?" She pronged a sliver of turkey between her lips and chewed it slowly. Service. Bugger. Those lips... those soft, red lips... Control, Hunt. Control.

He managed a grin. "It will be later, Bolly. It will be."

As it turned out, it was the excellence of the meal that saved Alex from a fate worse than death. Once he had got stuck into his turkey, stuffing, chipolatas, bacon and roasties, and even condescended to add some "healthy" Brussels sprouts and parsnips, he enjoyed it so much that he demanded seconds and thirds, and Alex had difficulty in persuading him to save enough space for the pudding and brandy butter.

"Could get used to posh cuisine when it tastes as good as this, Bols."

"Good. Glad you liked it, Sir."

After a suitable interval for rest and recuperation, they moved over to the tree to exchange presents. Alex retrieved a large, box-shaped parcel and put in in his lap.

"This first for you, I think. Something to look at."

"I've already got something to look at," he rumbled, feasting his eyes on her slender figure.

"Something else."

He tore at the paper. "Oh, Bols." It was a boxed set of Clint Eastwood VHS tapes. "For a Fistful of Dollars - For a Few Dollars More - The Good, the Bad and the Ugly - Hang 'em High - High Plains Drifter -"

"Remembering your fancy dress outfit at the boat party." She nuzzled his shoulder. She had recently bought a VHS recorder, stating that as she was going to stay in this world, she would keep up to date with the technology. Unfortunately that meant that their existing Betamax video collections had to be replaced.

"Something to look at when I'm on the sofa with a cold beer an' a hot woman." He wasn't going to tell her that he already had all the VHS tapes in his now rarely-visited house. He would throw those away. These would be special because they were her gift. "Thanks, Bols."

"This next, because it won't be a surprise." She gave him a tall box with suspiciously familiar dimensions. Sure enough, when he put it to his ear and shook it, it gave forth a pleasant sloshing sound. He ripped off the paper to reveal a gift-boxed bottle of fifteen-year-old Tobermory.

"Something to drink." He gazed at it with adoring eyes. Alex sighed inwardly and hoped that her other presents would have the same impact. She wondered why it was that, whichever place or time she was in, men always preferred a simple bottle of booze to any other more thoughtful or more carefully chosen present.

"You can start it later, when you're looking at the videos." She gave him a small, flat parcel which resembled a gift wrapped envelope. "This should be harder to guess." It was an envelope, filled with incomprehensible paperwork. Gene riffled through it and scowled.

"What's all this?"

She settled onto the sofa next to him. "This, dear boy, is the certificates for £50-worth of shares in Glenmorangie."

His eyes lit up. "Bloody 'ell..."

"I don't know if they'll ever be worth anything, but I thought it would be fun for you to know that you have a very, very small stake in one of your favourite distilleries."

"I'll say." He kissed her. "We'll take a holiday in Scotland this summer. We'll visit 'em an' demand a guided tour with free samples. I'll wave me certificates an' claim I'm a part owner, an' need to know 'ow the company works."

Her eyes glittered with love. "In your dreams, Hunt. Now, this." She placed a small, gift-wrapped box in his hand. "Something to wear."

He hoped that it was not a tie-pin. In his job, he needed ease of movement, and a pin might tear his tie. But although he correctly guessed that the parcel contained a jeweller's box, it held a heavy gold signet ring, engraved with a lion's head, and a stick of sealing wax. He was momentarily speechless.

"I hope it's the right size," Alex said nervously. "I couldn't measure your finger to check, but the jeweller said that he'll re-size it if necessary."

"Let's 'ave a go." He extracted it from its velvet nest and slipped it onto his left middle finger. It fitted perfectly. "Stop worrying, woman. It could 'ave been made for me." He radiated satisfaction.

Alex heaved a silent sigh of relief. When she had seen it in the jeweller's window, she knew that he had to have it, but she had been worried in case the gift of a ring, with all that it could be seen to imply, might make him back away. Fortunately he seemed too pleased with its appropriateness, to read anything sinister into it.

He pouted. "But what's the red stuff for?"

"Sealing wax, Gene. It's a signet ring. Heat a little of it with your lighter, drip it into a piece of paper or an envelope and stamp it with the ring, and you've sealed your own decrees."

He looked pleased. "Won't bother with that. I'll be too busy sealin' it on the chins of the scum of London. It'll be my new knuckleduster."

Alex sighed again, openly this time. Trust Gene to take an elegant gift and use it for violent purposes. But if it pleased him, that was the main thing. "Look inside the hoop."

He took the ring from the box and looked at the engraving inside. "A Lion for the Lion. Thanks, Bols. You've found the perfect present."

"I hoped you'd like it."

"Like it? I love it. Nearly as much as I lo - " He checked himself and glared. "Why 'aven't you 'ad any presents yet?"

Typical Gene. Paralysed by the thought of the dreaded L-word. "Because I'm your maid today, Sir." She lowered her eyes submissively. "The Master has to be served first."

"Give over." He stumped over to the tree and came back with a large, shapeless parcel, which he dropped into her lap. "Take this for starters."

It was a beautifully tailored white jacket. She looked up at him. "Oh, Gene, it's lovely!"

He looked awkward. "Try it on." He had checked the size labels in her wardrobe before buying it, but had no idea whether it would fit her. She stood, and he held it out for her to slip into it, a rare display of old-fashioned courtesy from him which touched her deeply. The jacket slid over her slender shoulders like water and she buttoned it up. It was a perfect fit. She sashayed over to a full-length mirror on the wall and pirouetted in front of it. He watched her. Was it she who seemed to make the fabric glow, or the fabric that made her glow?

"Just like your ring. It could have been made for me." She strolled back to him. "Are you sure you didn't measure me in my sleep?"

"'Course not, you daft tart! You don't sleep deeply enough for that!" Clearly he liked what he saw.

"Thank you, Gene. It's beautiful." She removed it, stroked the fabric, and looked at the label. "Good grief, this is cashmere! It must have cost you the earth."

"It looked the best for you in the shop. Glad you like it." He had agonised over whether to get it for her, had feared that she might resent any suggestion that he was trying to mould her image. But she had not objected when he bought her a black jacket when he aroused her from her coma. He had done that because he had feared, then, that another white jacket might awaken unwelcome memories of the shooting in St Joseph's. He decided to come clean. "Missed seeing you in white, Bols. We're a team, black an' white, like the whisky, with Collins trailing behind in Ray's jacket." He did not add that he was desperate for her to stop wearing her shapeless grey sack of a jacket any longer. She had been wearing it when he banished her to the Railway Arms, and now, every time he saw her in it, he felt a pang of terror lest she would vanish from his sight again.

She folded it tenderly in its tissue paper. "Tell me, Mr Hunt, is it a condition of your world that all the clothes fit? I've always wondered how it was, that those clothes from that poor girl who was killed outside Timothy White's fitted me like a second skin."

He smirked. "One of the advantages of bein' a Guardian. I got the office, the guns, the car, the team, an' all the clothes fit." Except for that bloody grey sack. He picked up a small, box-shaped package. "This next."

She opened it. It was a substantial bottle of her favourite perfume, gift boxed. She inhaled it appreciatively. "Woman stink. Tell me that doesn't moisten your gusset, sir."

He grinned. "Did 'til I saw the price. Nearly gave me a heart attack. Never realised before 'ow much it costs you birds to keep smelling of flowers. One thing, if you go off an' get locked in another cold store, I'll give the old bottle to one of the station dogs an' get 'im to sniff you out." He did not mention his excruciatingly embarrassing visit to the Selfridges perfume counter. The enthusiastic young female assistant had wanted to spray his wrist with a tester, and he had smoked half a packet of fags on the way back to the station to mask the smell. He blenched inwardly at the memory, picked up another, smaller box, and handed it to her.

She removed the paper to reveal a small jeweller's box, which contained a a gleaming brass brooch, beautifully worked and polished, in the shape of a curved arrow.

"It's beautiful, Gene." She looked at him questioningly.

He looked very solemn. "As you know, Bols, the Met gives out medals every now an' then. Bravery awards. I'm awarding this medal to you. Wear it on your jacket. In memory of the three who so nearly went down in the lift. They went up instead, thanks to you."

"Thank you," she whispered, deeply moved. "But it was you who saved them, not me."

"No, you." His eyes blazed into hers. "You know I was done when Keats took 'em away. It was you who stayed with me. You who pulled me back together. You who knew Chris had taken the radio. You who got their attention and made me talk to 'em. We were only just in time. You made them listen to me. It was you who saved them. I already told you, Keats knew you were going to help me, an' wanted to stop it. That was why he tried so 'ard to drive us apart. That, an' because 'e wanted you 'imself." She shuddered. "You'd 'ave been 'is biggest prize of all."

"Thank you." She could barely speak for emotion. "I'll be so proud to wear it. For you and for them."

"Good." He handed her another, slightly larger parcel. "Last one."

She unwrapped it. It was another jeweller's box. Inside it, nestling in folds of deep blue velvet, was a heavy gold chain, the exact twin of his own. She took it out and ran the rich links between her fingers, overcome with emotion as she understood all the unspoken implications of such a gift. From a man so notoriously reluctant to reveal his feelings, this was a major statement.

"Oh, Gene..."

"I thought, y'know, his an' hers," he mumbled awkwardly. His eyes fell on the multi-stranded gold necklace she was already wearing. "Shit." He reached out for the chain. "It's okay, I can take it back to the shop, get you something you'll want - "

"No, Gene. No." She pressed the chain to her heart. "All I want is this. The present you chose for me."

"But you've already got something better."

"No." She took the necklace off. "This is only a piece of jewellery. Something I can wear or not, as I choose." She dropped it carelessly upon a cushion. "This - " she held out the chain - "I value more than I can say. Because you gave it to me, and because I know what your giving it, and my receiving it, means to both of us." Their eyes met and locked. "From now on, I will always wear it. Thank you, Gene. Thank you so much."

He looked away, unable to reply. She undid the clasp, put the chain around her neck, and turned away from him. "Will you do it up for me?" Her voice was full of meaning, and he understood. To both of them, his fastening the clasp would be almost as significant as placing a ring upon her finger. A gesture that would bind them together, even closer than before. He fastened it, and she could feel how his hands were shaking. She reached up, took his hands, placed them upon her sash, and pulled them aside. The sash fell away and the dress slipped from her shoulders.

"Bloody 'ell, think all my Christmases 'ave come at once..."

She freed her hands, and the dress slipped down to pool at her feet. Beneath it, she wore a strapless red velvet micro-dress, trimmed with white fake fur around the bust and hem, which totally failed to conceal the suspenders holding up her black fishnets. He growled appreciatively, and she reached behind her to caress his hair and draw his arm around her.

"Shouldn't you be assisting Santa today, Mrs Claus?" He nuzzled the back of her neck, making her shiver with delight. His stubble scraped her skin, and her knees buckled.

She turned her head to look at him and smiled. "I didn't say you'd had all your presents yet."

"More of your special clothes?"

She leaned back against him, stroking his face, feeling his jumping pulse. "Time for Stage Three. Whore in the bedroom."

He fumbled for the zip. "Beats me why you bother, when you know I'll 'ave 'em off you in ten seconds flat."

"Christmas presents have to be unwrapped, Gene..."

-oO0Oo-

He awakened the next morning, holding her in his arms as she slept, feeling her smooth skin against his. The bright sunlight streaming through the curtains caught the chain, glittering on her slender neck.

He had not yet got used to the simple fact of waking up every morning to find her there. He kept fearing that he would awaken alone, in his empty house, to find that it was all a dream. Or that he would awaken and find a note on the pillow saying that she had decided to go to the Railway Arms.

All these years, he had kidded himself that he did not need anyone. That he had to be alone. His job was to send souls onward, therefore he should not become close to his charges. Despite the closeness of his partnerships with Sam and then with Alex, he had always, in essence, been solitary. That was why his marriage had failed. He had never been able to give the poor cow enough. He supposed now, that his ex-wife in this world must be a construct of Vera Dixon, his childhood sweetheart in the real world. Just as Shaz had provided herself with constructs of her whole family.

But he would never forget the sense of dread and emptiness that had engulfed him when he had seen Alex go into the pub and the door shut behind her. The thud of the closing door had been like a knell of doom.

Walking back to the station in the darkness, he had told himself that of course he had done the right thing. Sending people to the pub was his job. But he had never felt so lonely.

Tell, me, do you ever get lonely, Gene?

Memories had lunged out of the darkness to torment him and sprung back out of reach before he could seize them and exorcise them. During those dark hours he had known that he would have to forget everything again, or go mad. But when Alex had returned from the Railway Arms, she had brought with her Authority's report, decreeing that personal involvement was a challenge which he should not have rejected, but embraced wholeheartedly. So, at last, he had let her in. At first, long force of habit, and an innate dread of losing his power, had made him terminally wary of emotional dependence upon another person. But now the very thought of ever having to go on without her, terrified him.

He looked down at her. He was certainly embracing her wholeheartedly now, he thought, his lips curving in a lascivious grin. Her face was rosy with sleep, and she looked utterly relaxed. He remembered the poor, thin streak of misery she had been when she had first returned from the Railway Arms, and knew without question that he had done the right thing in bringing her here. He didn't have to be some bloody doctor or psychologist to know that she had urgently needed to be taken away from her usual beat and have a complete rest. He could admit to himself that he would have preferred it not to be another isolated farmhouse, but beggars could not be choosers, and this had been Sharkey's only free let. Come to think of it, though, he hadn't had any nightmares since he'd been here. Maybe the change was doing him good as well, unless all the sex was making him sleep too heavily to dream.

He was glad that she had received the chain in the spirit in which he had offered it. After everything that had been between them in the past, he had not known whether she would feel able to accept a gift which implied a commitment. But she had seemed to like it. There were so many things that he feared he would never be able to say to her, but maybe she understood without him having to say them.

She stirred, stretched luxuriously, and opened her eyes. He raised himself onto one elbow, looking down at her.

"Happy Boxing Day, Bolly Knickers."

"Happy Boxing Day, Gene." She reached up, caressed his cheek, and drew him down for a kiss. His chain brushed against her neck, and she giggled. "We'll have to be careful, or we'll end up tangled like rutting stags."

He pulled her closer. "Now, the rutting bit I could do with…"

-oO0Oo-

After a late breakfast, they went out for a walk, as Alex insisted that they couldn't stay amid some of the Peak District's finest scenery without taking a look at it. Gene would have been happier staying indoors and watching his new videos, but this holiday was for her, so he stumped behind her, his hands in his pockets, as she strode along. The wind whipped a flush into her cheeks, played with her scarf and her hair, and at one point nearly snatched her woolly hat off. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she pointed out each new, magnificent view and took photo after photo, glad that she had thought to bring her camera with her. Gene, city-born and bred, took little pleasure in all this wild scenery. He was a urban Lion, who preferred the pavement beneath his boots and a police station as his den to the springy turf and the caves in the crags looming above them. But although the walk to the triangulation point nearly winded him, he could not but be impressed by the sight of the town below them, encircled by the surrounding peaks.

"I lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help," Alex quoted. "Oh, Gene, it makes one realise how huge this world is, and how small we are."

"Yeah." He was leaning against the triangulation pillar to get his breath back. He had not missed the fact that she had said this world. Not the real world, which neither of them would ever see again. "But the little things are what's important." He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Planning on goin' any further?"

She leaned back against him, laughing. "No. I'm not expecting us to climb the Edge. It wouldn't be safe, anyway, unless we'd told someone where we were going. That's why I checked the weather forecast on the radio before we started, and kept us to a defined path. Let's go back. It'll be easier, going downhill."

"Good."

The walk had given them both an appetite, and she used some of the remaining turkey to make a delicious fricassee for lunch, after which they feasted on mince pies and clementines. After lunch, he switched the television on and watched his video of For a Fistful of Dollars. She joined him on the sofa, tucked her feet neatly beneath her, and rested her head on his shoulder. When the film ended and he turned the television and video player off, she stirred.

"Thought you'd fallen asleep. Waste of a good film."

She smiled. "No. Just resting."

"That's what all birds say when blokes are watching Westerns."

"I like Westerns too," she protested. There was a companionable silence. "Thank you."

He turned his head to look at her. "What for?"

"This. All of this. It's been wonderful. Thank you so much, Gene. It's been a glorious Christmas."

"Glad you've enjoyed it." As ever, he found it hard to respond to gratitude.

She raised her head and looked him in the eye. "Why?"

"Why what?" he hedged.

"Why did you bring me here?"

He looked embarrassed. "I 'eard Twonkhead Collins rabbiting on about me-time. Struck me you could do with some you-time. It's been a bugger of a year for you. You started it out cold as a fish finger, then I smacked you to bring you round, then there was Keats, all that - stuff - last month, the others going, you comin' back, Collins an' Lisa joining us, the bomb a week ago - I decided you needed this."

She snuggled against him. "I didn't know it, but you were right. Maybe I'll make a psychologist of you yet." He grunted something deliberately unintelligible. "Thank you. It's been lovely, just the two of us here in this gorgeous place. A chance to recharge our batteries."

"That was the idea."

"I'm only sorry that we have to go back so soon, but I know all good things must come to an end, and it'll be something for us to remember when we're dealing with crap again. It's so good of you. I - I know it must have been hard for you, coming to a place like this."

"Shit." Bugger the woman. He might have known that he couldn't keep anything from her. "Let's just say I was glad when we got 'ere an' found there wasn't a scarecrow outside."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. You've done so well to confront these things, not run away from them."

He sighed deeply. "I know it was running away got me into the shit before. Forgot everything, an' that left me wide open when Keats tried it on." He looked at her. "You realise I'd 'ave forgotten everything again by now, if you hadn't come back?"

"I know. It's good that Jason's settling down so well, but I'm worried about him."

"Why?"

"He's accepting this world so readily. Sam and I always fought it, but Jason doesn't seem to be fighting at all. What if he dies, simply because he doesn't try to get back?"

Gene hesitated before answering. "Hate to say this, Bols, but you know that fighting doesn't necessarily mean he'd get back." She nodded, tears springing to her eyes, and looked away. "If 'e's here, then here's the best place for 'im. Contrary to what Keats says, I don't keep anyone 'ere who shouldn't be."

"I know." There was a short silence while she mastered her emotions. "When do you think we'll get replacements for the others?"

"Dunno. I'd 'ave expected 'em to come along before this, but you never can tell. I know the boys are wondering if I'll promote one of 'em to DS."

"And will you?"

"Been considering it," he admitted. "None of 'em would 'ave thought about it while Ray was 'ere. Terry's the best of 'em, but 'e's a liability with a gun these days. Poirot's good too, but he's a plodder. Don't know 'ow he'd react to the responsibility. Slate an' Bammo are too rash, Cotsey 'asn't enough experience yet, an' Davies is a div. But then, so was Chris," he added affectionately, "an' he turned out all right. Might 'ave problems if we get a new DS an' the boys resent someone coming in over their 'eads. But I might be needing two DSs soon."

"Might you? Why?"

"There's changes in the air. Nobody below DCI's meant to know yet, but I know you won't spill. I reported to the Super on the Stafford case an' 'ow Wilson left Louise to 'ang out to dry. They've 'ad a D an' C bloke over at Hanfield for the past month - a real D an' C officer, not one of Keats's friends - an' he's just made 'is report. The Met'll sweep it under the carpet, of course. Wouldn't look good if it got out that a DCI took backhanders from a noted criminal family an' abandoned an undercover officer. Wilson's facing a tribunal, but 'e'll probably escape with being pensioned off on medical grounds. Looks like Hanfield's going to be closed down as part of a post-Countryman rationalisation. Chances are we'll get part of their patch."

"Will we get any of the officers?"

"No, their CID'll be split up an' transferred out to other stations, just like the old Fenchurch West team were after Operation Rose. But a bigger patch'll mean a bigger caseload. I'll leave my decision on who to promote to DS 'til the closure of Hanfield's announced."

"Will we get more staff, apart from the "new arrivals"?" She waggled her fingers.

"Nah, this is all in the name of cost-cutting. The lazy buggers we've got'll just 'ave to work harder. Hanfield will be sold off. You saw when you were there, it's a luxury pad. Fetch the Met a fortune on the property market."

"If we get more new arrivals, will it mean that we'll have to move from Fenchurch?"

"No, the office was enlarged when those builders were in, when Shaz went arse over tit about the screwdriver. Should be enough space if we get more staff."

"Good." She slid down to rest her head in his lap. "I'd hate to leave there. It's been like home for so long."

He looked down at her. "Keats was right about one thing. The place defines me. Us." He looked awkward again. "There's one other reason I brought you 'ere. Having another DI means we're working together less. Didn't want you to think you don't matter 'ere, just because you don't work on every case with me now. Wanted to show you - "

"What?"

He looked more awkward than ever, and she loved him all the more for it. "That you do. Matter."

She reached up to stroke his face. "Thank you, Gene. Thank you for telling me and showing me. It means so much. I've kept thinking how selfish I've been."

He started so violently that she nearly rolled off his lap. "You? How did you work that one out?"

She levered herself into an upright position, and he pulled her close. "You were all set with your new DI, and then I came back. I'm a distraction to you. I know Jason has to be your priority now."

"Shut up. Don't you dare ever say anything like that again, or I'll 'ang you out of the window by your knicker elastic. Authority says you're meant to be 'ere, an' - an I want - I say so, too." She smiled into his chest. He might never be able to admit his feelings openly, but she understood. He cradled her against him, silently berating himself for a soppy, sentimental poof and savouring every moment. "An' now, no more shop. That's an order. You're meant to be relaxing. That's why you're 'ere."

"But I am relaxed." She flopped against him. "I couldn't be much more relaxed than this."

It was true. They had been in the cottage for less than three days, but already the rough and tumble of life and work in London seemed an unbelievably long way away. The change had done much to set her troubled mind at rest. She found that she was accepting this world, and her place in it, as never before, and her grief for what she had lost was beginning to fade.

A smile spread across his face. "Any ideas for 'ow to get you more relaxed?"

"Well…"

He slithered down into the sofa cushions, pulling her with him. "Like test driving the sofa springs?" He kissed her, and she squirmed appreciatively beneath him as he pulled off her slippers and jumper and started to wrestle with her jeans.

"Gene, we have a four-poster bed upstairs, and Sharkey won't thank us if we ruin his sofa."

He sat up. "That's the trouble with birds, they spoil all the fun."

"If you have a fixation about sex on sofas, you can indulge it when we get home tomorrow."

He stood, picking her up in his arms, and strode towards the bedroom. "Four-poster, 'ere we come."

He laid her on the bed with unusual gentleness, helped her off with the rest of her clothes, and ripped off his own in double quick time. As he joined her under the bedclothes, she giggled.

"An' what's so funny about getting the Gene Genie into the sack?"

"I've just remembered, I'd got another costume for this evening."

"Save it for our birthdays. We don't need special clothes."

"No. We don't..."

-oO0Oo-

They made love and dozed in the huge, glorious bed throughout the afternoon and evening, until deep sleep claimed them as night fell. Around 3am, Gene woke up, his hair standing on end. He had heard nothing, but he knew that someone, or something, was in the house. All his senses were on edge. His first impulse was to awaken Alex, but he stopped himself. His gut instinct told him that whatever was out there, it was for him to face, not her. Carefully disentangling himself from the sleeping woman, he slipped out of bed, pulled on his robe, unhooked a decorative cast iron chestnut roasting pan which hung on the wall, and stole out of the bedroom.

He paused on the landing. All was quiet. He crept down the stairs, his improvised weapon held high, and moved into the living room. His first thought was that Nelson was sending him another message from the Railway Arms, but the television was dark...

...except for the reflection in the screen.

He whirled around, and only just managed not to cry out. He lowered his weapon. No threat here.

"You?"

"Yes." PC 6620 stood facing him, smiling slightly. His young face was no longer blemished by the hideous mutilation which had terrified Alex. Gene had the impression that it was the first time that the poor ghost had spoken in many, many years, and that speech came hard to him.

"So. Why are you 'ere?" Gene was beginning to understand how Alex had felt when the ghost had haunted her. This whole encounter was so surreal that he wondered if he was dreaming.

"To thank you."

"What for?"

"I've been found. Healed."

"Yeah, so you were. That is, so I was. Am. Er - " Gene swallowed hard. "You, um, you did well, y'know. Back in '53. Only a week on the beat, an' you 'ad the courage to go into that farmhouse and - " He looked away.

The boy nodded and smiled, a little wider this time. "Thank you. For being the copper I always wanted to be."

"Yeah." Gene did not know what else to say. He needed a drink.

"Gene?" Alex's voice called from upstairs. Man and ghost both glanced in the direction of the stairs for a moment, and when Gene looked back, his other self had gone. His legs gave way and he sank onto the sofa.

"Gene?" Alex appeared in the doorway, the bedspread wrapped around her naked form. "Why are you sitting here in the dark? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He concealed the chestnut roaster and forced himself to stand. "Came down 'ere for a smoke, but I can't find my fags. Never mind." It was on his conscience, that he was not telling her about the ghost. They had promised to tell one another everything, but this was something that he could not face yet. Not now. Maybe later.

Alex frowned. "I thought I heard you talking to someone."

"To myself. First sign of insanity. You should know all about that, Bols, you passed that point long ago. Come back to bed, you'll get cold."

He wrapped a long arm around her and guided her towards the stairs. The scent of her skin and the warmth of her supple body against his made him feel more alive than ever before.

But if I hadn't died in '53, I would never have found her, he reflected as he drew her into his arms beneath the soft bedclothes. When she was young and beautiful in 2008, I'd have been an old man.

I had to die, to feel so alive.

TBC

A/N: The gift of the arrow brooch was inspired by a piece in my collection, which had been bought by the Ashes to Ashes costume department as an alternative to the G-shaped silver brooch which Alex wore on her lapel in Series 3, but was never used. I can't help thinking that if it had been used, the arrow curving down and then up would have been loaded with symbolism.