Written with Aussiegirl41
Spoilers: Use of all the Ashes to Ashes and Life on Mars canon.
A/N: After watching the series 'together', Aussie and I looked at each other virtually and said, "You know what this means, don't you?" So we had to write. What this is will be is the question.
"No one on earth can feel like this." Skin soft as his mam's breast, yielding to his grip, tearing to bloom red and lovely, the colour of passion.
Must calm her. Twitching like a fluttering bird in his fingers. "Overblown with bliss," he suggested, lips at her ear. Just a nip, a taste, her sweet sweat on his tongue.
The heel of his palm—there. Hard. The crack of bone. Not even a scream but a gasp of a last breath. "There's more of us at home," he promised and he could hear the rustle of his watching shadow, crouched in a stagnant puddle of piss, there and not there.
She must fly away now. The knife's blade, unlacing her cardigan's stitches, careful. Precise. Can't be too excited yet. Not finished.
Still, he could barely choke out, "Playing with my heart," as he spread her ragged wings and posed her legs just so—she was ready to leap off the station platform, a gentle spirit, too pure for this filthy world.
A grotesque croak from behind. "Get off, ye' bastard."
Now there was fear. This corvus, wide-spanned, ready to blind with his sharp blows. But then black was white.
"I must be hallucinating." Light in the dark tunnel, bright as an oncoming train.
"What've you done there?! Get back!" Knocked aside, one big lad and the little lad; bad boys both.
Black gloved fingers touching her dead-white cheeks. But she belonged to the heavens, not this vulture. A pipe, heavy but not too heavy. Knock the bird from its wire and it fell to earth, tumbling down to the train tracks. And the light shown, the whistle screamed, screamed like the angel never did.
A man's body was caught on a cross of torch beams, a fallen scarecrow of long, akimbo limbs and a lolled head, the mouth slack. One police constable immediately radioed for a medic while another advanced warily along the unlit train platform. Drake followed, her palm resting on the unfamiliar weapon holstered at her waist.
The PC rolled the body cautiously and the man's arm flung out as he settled on his back, leaving him bared to their view. Clean white shirt, blue tie, and dark suit, waistcoat and overcoat.
"Life signs?" Drake questioned.
The constable leant over, training his torch on the pale face and closed eyelids.
At the sound of her voice, the man's eyes snapped open, but he didn't blink at the harsh light. His head lifted and although Drake knew he couldn't see her in the shadows, his gaze was still on her. His nostrils flared, taking a deep breath. She sensed him catching her scent, like an animal on the hunt.
"Careful, sir," said the PC, offering his hand. When the man made it to his feet, he was tall, looming over them all, his fair head lost in the darkness.
"What are you doing here?" asked Drake, still wary, although the subject for whom they searched was a short East Asian. This man, rubbing his head in pain, appeared to be a possible victim of the suspected terrorist.
"I fell," he said, his tone clipped.
"Off a train?" asked one of the constables.
"Yes," the man said slowly but appeared puzzled.
The trains had been stopped from entering the station over an hour ago when the police had set up the security perimeter. "Did you disembark from a train earlier today?" Drake corrected gently. "Have you been lost down here?"
The man honed in on her. "No," he said, but there was a question in his voice.
Moving close, she cast up her torch's light. Worn, scarred features, a contrast to the fine linen of his snowy shirt collar and blue silk tie. A slash for a mouth, tight, holding back any speech but what was necessary. Dark-ringed silver eyes, their gaze sliding across her face, then settling on her lips. Their colour warmed to molten mercury.
"What're you doin' here?" he rasped as though he was in great pain. "I've missed you—"
And then he touched her. His palm cradled her cheek, his thumb stroking down towards her quivering mouth. His hand was in a black glove but the leather was warm and supple as human skin. His long eyelashes fluttered to close. His head dipped towards hers and with shock, she realised he was going to kiss her. "Bolly," he murmured at her lips.
She would not show fear but could not allow him to continue. She stepped out of his touch. The moment had been so brief that her escorts had no time to react and yet she felt as though it had been an hour.
"You're mistaking me for someone else," she said definitely. "I'm not your Polly. I'm a detective inspector with the Met. We're searching for a suspect. You must leave."
His chin went up and of all things, his lips formed a little boy's petulant pout. He blinked as though clearing his vision and looked her up and down before saying, "'spose I've made a mistake," his tone as distant as hers. She noted that he had a Northern dialect.
Only then did she see a trickle of blood coming out of his hairline on his left temple. "Did you strike your head?" She ran her fingers through his short hair, searching for the source of blood.
Confusion on his face, he pushed his hand along the other side of his head. "Me hair," he muttered. "Where's it gone?"
"It's right there," she said soothingly. Male vanity; his hair wasn't thinning very much for a man of his age. Over her shoulder, she barked, "Status on that medical assist?"
"They need an armed escort to come down here. Azmat still isn't captured—"
"I'm fine," the man growled. "I can get up top on my own." He looked around. "Why's the lights out?"
"We're in a service tunnel of Euston Station," she told him. "The power appears to have been cut."
He rubbed his thumb on his chin and narrowed his eyes. "What's the scumbag done?"
Sergeant Campbell from Armed Response apparently decided to step in and take charge. Cradling his assault rifle, he told the man: "Sir, we need to get you out of here—"
"Yeah, let's get outta here," the man said. Somehow he was standing close to Drake again, near enough for her to feel his breath on her hair. When she dared to glance up, he was watching her intently.
Head injury cases commonly had fixed gazes, she recalled from her first aid training courses. "This way," she said softly, taking his arm. To the others she directed: "I want to check in with the Guv and see where we're at with this. Tired of poking around in the dark."
"We'll leave this to the lads," the stranger agreed. "We've got more pressing matters to attend to."
With a constable leading the way, they retreated through the tunnels until a service door disengorged them back into the brightly lit North Line platform. The heavy door closing echoed eerily in the empty platform. The evacuation must have been completed while Drake's team had been searching the tunnels.
She stopped to get her bearings. "We'll be good from here," she told the PC and sent him back to rejoin the others.
The man was intently examining a wall poster for the upcoming Nelson Mandela ninetieth birthday concert in Hyde Park. He pushed out his lips again. "Bloody hell," he groused. "You were right."
"Excuse me?" she said, still on edge. The vast, bright emptiness of the platform area was just as ominous as the dark tunnels.
He shifted closer, a rueful smile lifting the corner of his mouth before it set again in a hard line. She fought the urge to step away. In her work, Alex was very conscious of personal space. Mindful of being a female in policing, a harsh environment of aggression and violence, she maintained physical and emotional distance at all times, but strove to never give the impression of retreat or fear. Tall for a woman, she usually had her physical presence on her side.
Not with this man. He loomed over her, his wide shoulders and cape-like coat blocking out everything but she and him. Yet his presence didn't trigger anxiety or uncertainty. She was just a bit pissed off at the humour in his eyes, as though he was in on some joke and she didn't understand the punchline.
"2008—" he muttered, still looking at the poster.
"Sir, let's get that bump on your head looked at," she said, worried at his disoriented manner.
"Sure," he said, straightening his shoulders. He strode off confidently, belaying her concern momentarily.
They rode the escalators up to the street, standing shoulder to shoulder on the same stair. Once outside, Drake pointed the man towards the first aid station that had been set up for any casualties. Her attention back on her work, she hurried to the command tents, pulling off her bulletproof vest, intent on checking in with the tactical team. Nodding at the other officers, she also removed her weapon and laid it on the table covered with maps. Not accustomed to carrying a gun, it was a relief to remove its weight and heated threat from her side.
Their suspect, Ali Azmat, had been on Special Branch's radar for months as yet another young possibly radicalised young man with an Islamic background. His phone was bugged and his home watched. Alex Drake had been brought in to shadow the surveillance in the hope that more could be learnt about profiling homegrown terrorists. What would turn the son of a curry shop owner and apparently non-religious young man into a jihadist? But overnight, Azmat had pushed them to action. He'd purchased the components for homemade bombs, then suddenly disappeared. The last location on his mobile phone had been the Euston station, sending all branches into full response mode.
Helicopters roared overhead, scouring the streets. PC's moved along the kerbs, hooking up cars to be towed away.
"One little twat's down there and you've got how many men chasing him around?" came from behind her. The man hadn't heeded her instructions.
"Excuse me, sir." She turned to face him, trying to keep her patience. "But you need to see the medical staff. This is an on-going situation—"
He leant against an armoured response team van and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, quickly lighting one. She stared pointedly at the offending object, wrinkling her nose at the curling smoke, but he seemed not to notice.
"Just push 'im out like a 'ard turd," the man suggested, bending over to view the maps laid out on a folding table under the tent.
"Sir, really—"
The man leant close once again, but this time peering at her face in an impersonal manner. "Have you ever been shot, Alex?" he asked clinically.
A chill had passed down her spine. "I don't recall telling you my name," she noted.
"One of your lads—"
"No." She swung around to stand before him, hands on her hips. "None of my officers would refer to me by first name."
His lips twitched in what she was coming to know as his smile. "Course not."
Going on the offensive herself, she peppered him with questions: "What were you doing in the service tunnel? You said you were on a train. But the Virgin tracks are on the other side of the station."
His gaze dropped. She noticed that he did that often, but in no way did it appear submissive. He took a drag from his cigarette. "Got off me train a stop too soon—"
"Bullshit," she hissed, her training fleeing in one shocking moment. She never lost her temper like this.
Drake's superior, DCI Meg Harper, appeared from the cluster of dark uniforms. "DI Drake, who's this?" the older woman asked.
The man raised his eyebrows at the sight of the petite grey-haired woman. "Who're you?" he retorted. Hearing his belligerent tone, Harper's team of investigators and uniformed officers formed a protective ring around her.
Wanting to show her Governor that she could handle this situation, Drake put up a hand to hold the stranger back. "Sir, you must go to medical services, now!"
Her authoritative manner seemed to reassure Harper. The superior and her team moved away and returned to their discussion of the crisis.
But the man wasn't cowed. "Right," he barked, "let's get this poofter."
One deep breath. "Sir. You will go see a medic. Thank you." She turned back to the table and forced herself to exude calm energy and focus on the search areas completed. Footfall strode away and she allowed herself a small smirk of satisfaction.
She just had to look. Sure enough, when she peeked over her shoulder, he was gone. She was surprised at the twinge of disappointment that she felt. Then her gaze moved to the table where she left her weapon.
It was gone as well.
Snatching up a baton and hand-held radio, Alex hurried away from the command area, her heart thumping erratically. Surely her gun was simply picked up by one of the Armed Response officers, bent on teaching her a lesson for her carelessness.
She caught the attention of a paramedic loitering by his ambulance.
"Tall man, blond, dark suit and overcoat—"
The medic just shook his head. Then she spotted the sweep of a billowing black overcoat and a fair head down the street—it was him. Without thinking, she broke into a run, just keeping him in view as he disappeared around a shuttered betting shop and into an alley.
When she reached the corner, she pressed against wall and peered into the alleyway cautiously. He crouched by a ventilation grate. Extending the baton with a snap of her wrist, she crept forward. A voice in her head was screaming this was the stupidest thing that she'd ever done. But something was drawing her towards this man.
As he had in the dark tunnel, he sensed her presence and turned his head slowly to meet her gaze. Putting one leatherbound finger to his lips, his eyes held hers. He had a weapon—her gun—in his hand. Her stomach lurched; she was too close to flee safely. But instead of threatening her, he motioned for her to join him.
She would need to be closer to strike the gun from his hand. Taking another step, then another...she was almost there—
Grasping the grate, the man yanked it up and aside, and the alley suddenly exploded in sound—the clank of heavy metal, the screams of a young man whose voice still hadn't changed and deep guttural curses as he hauled Azmat up by his jumper collar.
He pressed the gun's muzzle to the young man's temple. "Yer nicked," he growled. "Got cuffs?" he asked her as he ground Azmat's face into the filthy tarmac.
Grappling with her radio and baton, she fumbled for her handcuffs and handed them over without question. He snapped them on Azmat's wrists tightly, gaining another whine from the suspect.
Quickly, she was formulating a plan. He seemed to want to assist her, and she would use that to get him into custody as well. She didn't need a gun; her greatest weapon was her negotiating ability.
"Thank you," she gushed. "Let's get him back to the security area."
Just as she hoped, the man smirked with satisfaction. He bodily tossed Azmat in a crumpled heap at her feet. "He's yours."
She forced the grateful smile to remain on her lips; he was too smug by half.
"How did you know to look here?" she asked, flicking her gaze around the alleyway warily. Were these two men working together? Had she just fallen into some elaborate terrorist trap?
"Just used me nouse, that's all," the man replied, tapping his nose with the tip of his finger.
"Do you know the suspect?"
"How the bloody hell would I know this raghead piece of scum?" The toe of his shoe found the side of Azmat's body as he spoke.
"Sir!" She jumped in between the men, shielding the prisoner on the ground. Her helpful citizen sneered, clearly not impressed with her concern over the young terrorist.
"Soft," he scoffed, but then turned her gun around to hand it to her, handle first.
"Yours," he said.
Relief washed over her as the weapon was finally back in her grasp.
"I—"
"Let's get this prat tucked in the paddy wagon," the man said, dragging a whining Azmat, half-walking, half-limp, back toward the security set-up. Alex trotted after him, feeling one part ineffectual, one part angry.
She protested, "If you could just—" but the man paid her no heed.
When they were back on the street, they were first spotted by the squad leader of the Armed Response Unit. "Is that him?" the commander called out as the odd little trio swept past.
"Yes, it is," Alex tossed over her shoulder. She ran ahead a bit to communicate what really was happening to the other forces.
Her sergeant had arrived. Welton waddled a bit from the stiff bulletproof vest and various weapons strapped to his thick waist. "DI Drake," he started excitedly.
"Got Azmat," she said quickly, motioning behind her. "But we need to arrest that man," she added, her voice low.
DS Welton blinked, then gave a short nod. He had years on the streets before being assigned under Drake. He quickly handed her a set of handcuffs without being asked.
She slipped them in her pocket and turned to face the man leading their suspect. Her sincere smile was back. "The Metropolitan Police thanks you, Mr.—" She realised that he'd never given her a name.
He pushed the young man towards a couple of constables, obviously no longer interested in the suspect. "You really don't know who I am?" he said, sounding hurt.
When she said, "No," he moved into her space again. This time she did sense danger for some reason; overwhelmed and out of her depth.
She stepped back but gripped his wrist while pulling out the handcuffs. "Sir, we've going to ask that you come with us to aid us in our inquiries—"
"You're arresting me?" he growled as he twisted his wrist to grab her hand.
"Step away from her!" ordered Welton.
"Piss off," the man barked over his shoulder.
Drake was shielded by the stranger's broad back from seeing her sergeant. Suddenly, there was an explosive sound and the man's body jerked. His jaw clenched and his eyes, that had been glued to hers, filled with rage and pain. She grabbed for him. "Sir! Sir!"
He crumpled to the ground, Alex hanging onto him all the way down.
"What the hell did you do!?" she yelled at Welton. He was staring at the black and yellow gun in his hand, obviously as stunned as she was. Two thin coiled wires ran from the weapon to Gene's twitching body.
"Turn that damn thing off!" ordered Drake, still clinging to the man's hand.
"The current's stopped," Welton helpfully told her, but she was too busy taking count of the man's racing pulse to care about his contrite tone.
Another constable swooped in, yanking the man's hand from her, taking his other, and fastening them with handcuffs behind his back.
"Be careful with him!" Drake sputtered.
He seemed half-conscious, trying to catch his breath.
Although he'd taken her gun, she still began to pat him down for weapons and contraband. She found his mobile phone and put it aside. Next there was his wallet; she flipped it open to see his identification—
It wasn't a wallet. It was a police officer's warrant card holder.
"DCI...Gene Hunt," she read slowly, not believing the name even as she said it aloud. It couldn't be—
"Present and accounted for," the man groaned out.
End ~ Chapter 1