A/N: So what's Summers after? Why is Alex hearing all this strange stuff? You may recognise some of the dialogue in this chapter...

Chapter 2

"My name is Martin Summers."

A perfectly ordinary name for a perfectly ordinary man. At least he seemed such on the surface. She wasn't quite sure what she had pictured for the phantom who had terrorised her, seeped into her bloodstream like an injection administered. He was middle-aged, tall – perhaps, she couldn't make out exactly how much by the way he was folded onto the chair. Her chair. He didn't have any particularly distinguishing features, aside from his voice. He could have been anyone who passed her on the street.

There wasn't anything especially menacing about him, apart from the intent stare he was fixing her with. He made no attempt to move from where he sat; instead he shifted in order to make himself more comfortable.

She felt herself freeze for quite a different reason.

"How...what the hell are you doing in here?" Her vocal cords were apparently the only part of her not paralysed by fear. It was like before, when she had pictured herself so vividly in the hospital bed, unable to make the smallest movement. Her breath felt tight and foreign in her chest.

He took a while to answer her, weighing up what to say.

"I took my chance," he concluded, glancing past her shoulder for a second. "While your Guv's away..."

Gene was in her mind again, before he'd even brought him into being, charging forth from behind her back and ready to attack, teeth bared. Get out, Bols. I'll take care of this. She could see him slide his hand beneath his overcoat, the cover of shadow over him, broken by the gleam of the barrel beneath. A shield surrounded her, impenetrable. Even so she could feel herself shake, imploring him not to act on the only thought he had in his mind as he pointed his gun squarely at Summers.

No, Gene. You can't do this.

She was fenced in by the bubble around her, her pleas hitting the pliable walls. His hand was as steady as a rock.

Bolly, get the fuck out. I'm not havin' you implicated.

She heard the retraction of the trigger, felt the heat rise to her head as she braced herself, partly grateful that it would all be over in a second or so.

His image vanished like smoke before her eyes as she blinked. Of course; another fevered illusion. Her mind was working overtime creating them.

She raised a hand to her head, a feeble attempt to stop the pulsing against her temples. Summers remained unfazed.

"What was I supposed to do, Alex?" The way he used her name unnerved her; she'd grown out of the habit of being addressed by it. "You've been ignoring everything I've left for you. You won't meet with me."

Her heart went slow while he stared at her; she could hear murmurs from somewhere – warnings, perhaps? – but the silence in the room was overwhelming, drowned the other sounds out until it was an unwinnable fight.

"Don't be scared," he said, steady and calm.

A stuttering laugh left her lips. "You make intimidating phone calls, you send me roses like some sort of crazed stalker. You try and poison me. And I'm supposed to believe that I shouldn't be scared of you?"

"I regret the poisoning," his chin lowered, his fingers twitching upon his knee, "but I had to make sure that you were the person I was looking for. And now I know you are."

She kept her eyes upon him, unsure of what he was going to do from one second to the next. The cold worked its way steadily from her toes to snake up each of her limbs, claiming her further with each second that passed.

He chuckled suddenly. "You don't like roses; I'll make a note of that. Though it's rather unfortunate, considering."

"Get out," she ordered, a rush of courage charging up through her, making it in time before her heart froze over and her pulse stopped dead in her veins. "If you don't go in the next couple of minutes..."

"You'll call the police?" he cut in. "We both know that won't be very effective."

His hand nestled into his coat and her senses sickened, wondering if the image she'd had of Gene aiming fire had been a premonition.

It wasn't a gun that he brought out, but instead a warrant card.

"You're...a cop?"

Again, he didn't respond immediately, turning the card over in his hand.

"I was. Retired now. Retired, and disgraced."

She noted how he clutched onto the item, his knuckles turning almost white with the force.

"I'm sorry to hear that. But I don't know what you want me to do about it."

The same slow smile that he had wore when she first came face to face with him was back.

"You can change things, Alex. This could be your exit route, you know." His grip relaxed, slipping the warrant card back to where it had rested previously. "Roses are red, violets are blue; you'll soon find out, Alex Drake, why it has to be you."

Her mind became a whirl, thoughts rushing around without any leash. Rose, rose...Operation Rose. It had been what Mac had uttered with one of his dying breaths. He'd warned them about it, looked genuinely fearful as he looked up towards Gene, the last person he ever saw. There's something else. Bigger. Rose.

It made sense, as much as she could fathom from the fractured pieces. But where Summers fit in she didn't know. If he's telling the truth...how can I be sure? She looked into his eyes, him believing he was giving nothing away.

"I'm not interested in you romantically, so you can rest easy about that." That smirk again; an idea that he was being funny, somehow. "But you are important. It's a mutual thing. A bond. You could say that we have a connection."

Using that string of words in particular. He knew what he was doing. But how much did he know?

Her heels went back slowly, gradually backing herself towards the door.

"I don't think you're very well, Mr Summers."

He laughed again. "You're right there. Takes one to know one."

The lights flickered again without interference from either of them. She heard the ticking, knocking against her head, but now there was another sound accompanying it. A low, whining beep.

He looked down at his hands, easing himself further forward.

"Molly brings you flowers. Tulips, I think. Colourful, pretty."

She had been but an inch from the door, so close to leaving, but at the mention of her daughter she found herself being drawn back. Though it was night and the curtains were drawn a bright flash of light flooded the room; for a fleeting moment she could make out Molly's face within it, looking straight towards her. Smiling.

It was so strange; she hadn't had a clear picture of Molly for so long, had started to believe that she was fading from her memory completely. Yet the closer she came to Summers the more vivid her daughter became. Her features, the detail on her school uniform; everything was so tangible, so real. She could have reached out to touch; her heart ached to do so.

"They don't allow flowers on the high-dependency unit, though," Summers continued, though his voice was but a distant echo to Alex as she focused on her daughter's face, visible over his shoulder. "Too much risk of infection. And we wouldn't want that, not when you're so close to getting back."

She could see the bouquet with pink wrapping that Molly clutched in her hands, raising her gaze to look back into her daughter's face. Her lips were moving; she was mouthing something, something that Alex couldn't hear but which she was trying hard to make out. One hand dropped to her side, before it was clutched by that of another. Evan.

"You need to give her time to rest, Scrap." His voice came out above all the other noises, the high-pitches and the cavernous silence. "Come on, we'll go home. Put those in water for next time. We don't want them to..."

Beeeeep.

Molls. Don't go. Stay, please.

But then she was gone, disappeared completely. Alex felt herself physically lurch, swaying on her feet; the loss of her little girl one which was drawn out, designed to cause her the deepest pain.

All the while she was aware of Summers staring at her, his suppressed smile at her obvious confusion.

"You can't possibly...how can you...how do you know?"

"I thought it would have been obvious by now," he answered her rambling question, making no move to get to his feet and help or steady her. "We're in the same hospital. I'm in the room next to you. I'm from exactly where you are."

She didn't believe it until whole minutes passed between him saying it and saying anything else.

"2008."

It surprised her more than she expected; she shouldn't have been so egotistical to believe that there was nobody else here going through the same thing. After all, Sam Tyler had experienced it, but as far as she was aware he was the only one that had been transported in his '70s existence. Perhaps she thought that more evidence would have presented itself before now.

"It took me a bit of getting used to, as well," he said, as though reading her mind. "There aren't a lot of people here from the other world. Apparently you and I are the only two."

How could he possibly know that to be the case? Did he have some kind of information, knowledge that she wasn't privy to? What had happened to him – had he been shot, run down by a car or something else entirely? The questions gathered and enlarged, not helpful in the slightest.

The thought crossed her mind – a dangerous one, she knew. What if he was wrong and there were others? People very close by, if not at the present moment. It could explain so much, the connection she felt.

"Is that why you're here?" she began, still reeling from the revelation, "To help me get home?"

Home. She'd almost given up hope. The image of Molly she had glimpsed moments previous was still burned into her brain, giving her reassurance and a strange sense of sadness.

"You and I are the only two people here who actually know what that means." He smiled deeper, almost sinister, a laugh emerging from his lips. "Still, it is a relief to talk about it, yes?"

She wasn't sure whether relief was the first emotion she would reach for.

"As for helping you, well, that depends." The silence echoed against the four walls. "I don't have the power. You said it yourself, I'm not a well man."

So he was in more peril than she was? One of the voices returned to her; she's not the worst case.

"It's a two-way thing, Alex. You're going to have to trust me. You help me, you work with me on this and it'll be beneficial for the both of us."

He leaned forward, met her eyes with his own. She tried to wrack her brain, think of whether she had known any Martin Summers. Everything from the future was so hazy; she could barely remember details that should have been fundamental, never mind anything else, any acquaintances she might have been in contact with.

"How do I know that you're telling the truth? You could just be telling me what I want to hear for all I know."

"1997. The year Princess Diana died. I was at her funeral." His smile was increasingly out of place. "It's funny seeing her here, a newlywed. If only she knew what we did, eh?" He reached into the outer pocket of his coat. "Look, the proof."

She swallowed hard, shaking as she took the newspaper cutting from his hand, dated 31st August 1997.

"You're not the only one who's dying here, Alex. Mine is a very slow and painful death, but here...here I can live the life that I want. I could go back, but I don't want to. You, on the other hand, have a decision to make as to what you're willing to do."

She could see the invisible rose petals falling from his hands, cascading onto her, staining her skin.

"You want me to be corrupt. That's what...that's what it is."

"Think about it, Alex. In six months time, when Molly's face has faded from your memory for good, then you'll be begging me to help you."

The agonising stab an inch or so away from her heart dug deeper, the thought of losing her daughter completely too much to bear. Another face formulated, the betrayal written clear upon his face causing her just as much pain. They trusted one another implicitly now and he valued trust above everything else, having been let down too many times before. To shatter that sacred faith; she couldn't see how she could do it.

"I haven't got much time to wait for an answer. And sadly, neither have you."

The ticking was back in her head, the ticking and the beeping of the machinery that was monitoring her signs of life.

"Alex. Hang in there, Alex. You're strong."

"A little bit longer, then they'll take you down to theatre and get that bullet out."

Summers' eyes upon her, waiting for her answer, her compliance.

The illusion behind her eyes again, standing in front of her, pleading for her undivided attention.

Bolly! You listen to me, Bols. This is where you belong. You and me, we're a team. Fightin' the rot together.

"I can't," she uttered, her voice weak and her heart hammering against her chest. "I'm sorry, but I can't. There must be someone else."

He looked at her, a surprising lack of disbelief in his eyes. Ankles crossed, he sank back against the chair, steepling his hands upon his chest.

"You know, Alex, I think we're more alike than you'd like to really believe. Certainly more than I'd bargained upon. I thought you'd be biting my hand off, the chance to make it back."

She stared at him but it was ineffectual. She had never met him before, could recall nothing because there was nothing there to begin with.

"I don't think you want to go back either," he said, full of assurance. "All this ignoring, hanging up the phone and running away. It's because you want to stay exactly where you are, right here."

She didn't feel that she should dignify that with a spoken answer, shaking her head instead.

"I understand," he went on, "more than anyone, I understand. My life was a mess. So much had happened, things that I couldn't control or change. Nothing had gone the way I wanted it to. And I think the same goes for you."

"Who are you to say what my life was like?" She was shaking, the anger swelling within her.

"Parents blown up. Divorced young. Single mother. The only meaningful relationship you have, outside of Molly and Evan, is with your work." He paused for a moment, drawing his hand up towards his collar. "I'm parched. You don't have anything to drink, do you?"

She ignored his request, focusing her building rage upon fighting back against his assertions, proving him wrong.

"I was happy. I will be happy again, when I get home." She stood firm, pouring her belief into the words she was saying. "That's all I need. To get back home."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I know you're trying to convince yourself, Alex. But you can't play the mind games with me. You have to be honest. It's a different world here, and you fought it at first, but now you've settled in. Found your place. I mean, as far as I'm aware there aren't many other female DIs in the Met, not in 1982. That has to mean something, being a trailblazer."

"That doesn't mean anything to me."

"Really?" he questioned. "Oh well, maybe I'm wrong on that account. Maybe it's the change of pace in general. The fast car, the thrills...you can feel your heart thundering against your chest, can't you?"

She tried to ignore it, keen not to give in so easily. But it answered for her, thumping against her ribcage, blood flowing at a quicker speed.

"You're more alive here, Alex. Admit it."

The tears sprang to her eyes as she considered. Perhaps she had been holding herself back, dismissing things purposefully, getting too comfortable. It would explain why her memory had been so unreliable, dipping in and out like a scrambled radio frequency.

"We share nurses at the hospital. I hear them talking. Do you know that you've only said one word since you got there?" He stared at her hard, rooting her to the moment. "Just the one. Gene."

She could feel her breath still in her body. The reason why she found everything so bearable, why she wasn't turning herself inside out.

"Well, it's no great surprise, is it?" She fought to keep her voice even, to sound halfway sane. "I mean, this world...it's a maze. He's the one constant."

At least he was most of the time. She felt angry with him suddenly; if he had been here maybe she wouldn't have had to come face to face with Summers, confront the truth of the reality she was spiralling in.

"It's a good job poor Molly wasn't around to hear you say it." He seemed to relish making her revel in pain. "What would she think to her mother forgetting her, replacing her?"

No. No, it's not like that. I'm doing this to get back.

"I love my daughter more than anything!" The cry came emphatically from her throat, causing her whole body to tremble. "My whole time is spent fighting for her. I will not have you make me out to be a traitor!"

She felt the energy being drained from her, thinking of Molly and of Gene, not bearing them being pitted against one another in some twisted game.

"But you love him too, don't you?" He was the one to say it. "And that is the problem you have. Stuck in two worlds, your heart tied to both of them. But you can't live in both forever. Sooner or later, something has to give."

As much as she hated to hear it, wanted to continue living in denial – with Molly in her heart and Gene in her head, or was it the other way round? – she knew that he was right. But she didn't see how she was in the wrong. She was trying everything she could, and she had told Gene that she might not be around forever. She had been very careful not to lie to him, but she also hadn't told him the truth. Because if she did, she knew that she would lose him for good and she couldn't risk that, not when he could still be the key.

"I don't know what to do," she exclaimed, aware that she sounded desperate. "You tell me. I mean, you're managing it, aren't you? The world hasn't imploded yet."

Summers smiled. "I've made my choice. It's a matter of time. You're still on the edge, Alex."

She could feel herself wavering; something as slight as a change in the wind could be the influence, one way or the other.

"But you say that I can help you. Judging by what you're saying, I don't think you need any help."

"That's where you're wrong," he replied. "Nobody walks this world alone. Not even here. You see, I can help you, but you have to figure out what you want first."

Molly. Of course she wanted Molly. Her life was back in 2008, everything she knew, everything she had worked for. It might have been a broken life at times, but it was hers.

Here...what was she?

She could hear Gene's voice in her head right now, telling her exactly. You're part of a team, Bolly. You're appreciated. Valued. We can't do this without yer. We need you.

I need you.

The words she was sure she would never hear him say, but which she longed to hear with all her heart.

Summers spoke again, breaking the one-way conversation that Gene's illusionary self was having with her.

"I could walk out of here and make the decision for you, if you like. I know where Evan White lives. I think he'd probably thank me if I finished him as well."

"No..." Horror flooded her as she came to realise what he was implying. The sick bastard.

"It'd be quick, painless. I always was a good shot. Her parents are already dead so they won't grieve. And no Alex Price means no Molly Drake, either. Nothing to feel guilty about. A win-win situation."

The way he was talking, so calm and collected, made her skin crawl and her stomach sick.

"No," she repeated, "no, I can't let her die. I'm her, for god's sake. What would even happen?"

He flashed a chilling smile. "You're giving it some thought. It's only natural, you like figuring things out. You'd still be you, Alex, just with none of the painful memories plaguing you. I know, it's confusing, but it'd have to be preferable, surely?"

He was mad. He had to be. There was no other reasonable explanation for it. She was back to her previous line of thinking, believing that he had been stringing her along, appealing to her vulnerabilities.

"Wouldn't it be all you ever wanted, Alex? Making a life here, with Hunt. Getting married, having a kid of your own. Sounds perfect to me, and I'm just an outsider."

She wanted to fall to her knees, cry out in pain, but she had to remain in control. Nothing about this was fair. Nothing at all. She had never asked for this and this encounter was just twisting the knife further.

It was her own fault, for believing she could be involved with Gene and that there would be no consequences. How could she have been so sure she was playing by the rules when she had no idea what they were?

He rose to his feet and at last she could ascertain how tall he was, standing a fraction shorter than Gene.

"I realise that this is a lot to take in," he said, drawing close to where she stood, "why don't you sleep on it and I'll come back tomorrow, you can give me your answer then."

She didn't need that long to wait, eyes flaring as she looked towards him.

"You never come back again," she spat, "you don't call me or send me any more roses. I don't trust you and I don't need you to get back. I can do it all on my own, no matter how long it takes."

He stared at her hard, smirking a little before he spoke.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Alex. Wherever you are, time is short." His words were blunt, laced with a poison he took pride in speaking. "Stay or go, it's up to you. But one way or another, you will help me. That you can rely on."

He fixed her with a final look before heading for the door. She hoped she would remember that she needed to get the locks changed in the morning, but her head was so sore.

"You might want to get something stronger for the pain," he said, turning around briefly, "can't have you compromised, now. That'd be bad for the both of us."

She rushed to the door, slamming her hand against it as he closed it before she could. Trying to steady her breathing she leant her forehead upon it, the ache travelling round to the centre once more, making it hard for her to keep her eyes open or maintain her balance.

"Why," she stuttered, her hand desperate against the plain, "why aren't you here, when I need you?"

The faces were interchangeable in her mind, switching so fast that she didn't know which one she was addressing.

Her cure that night was not an increased dose of medication, but a hot bath and a few glasses of wine. She switched the television enough when its brightness was too much for her eyes and crawled her way along to the bedroom, letting the sheets cover her over her head.

It had been so long since she had had a deep sleep; she was always just on the edge. Too frightened of what might happen, she supposed.

She fought, murmured her discontentment as she turned upon her pillow. But the presence wouldn't leave her, not now that he had been made real.

You can rely on me, Alex, he said, taunting her in her fragmented dreams, more than anything else.

A/N: Yeah, just as creepy and even crueller. Poor Alex.

Don't lose faith - I promise that a certain Manc Lion will reappear very soon...