A/N: So, Alex made it out of Operation Rose - what could possibly be next?

(a massive thank you to the lovely guest reviewers - I wish I could bombard you with love via messages but this shout-out will have to do)

Chapter 11

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her hand was placed on the left side of her chest, charting the rise and fall of her steady, easy breathing.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

She was still here. Days passed one after another, as normal as anyone else would think them to be. Beginning to roll into weeks. No echoes or spectres in her head; it was as though the slate had been wiped clean.

A nagging feeling at the back of her mind that it was too good to be true. Something had to happen to change things. The shadow was small and still receding, distant enough so as not to trouble her, charging forth in moments that were more fleeting than the space within a singular second. Extinguished by the light which was growing around her.

She would keep breathing, keep living. It was all that she could do.

That, and get on with her job. Scum stopped for no man, or woman. Gene's vocabulary was becoming her own, so much time did they spend together.

Every hour of every day, spare a few minutes.

Each night was treated like the one they had spent together when she had been convinced that it was the last she would have in this existence. Wrapped up in one another, tangled together. He murmured against her skin, tongue tracing her earlobe as she pulled him ever closer. You'll wear me out. She smiled up at him as she reclined, glimpsing flashes of blue, his eyes smirking towards her before they closed in reverence, lips lowering to her. Her hands pressed against his shoulders while his dark gold hair tickled, shot goosebumps up upon the surface of her skin. The sound that was still strange to her ears leaving her throat in a helpless moan as he surged into her, seamlessly. His words whispered, torn from him as she felt every single movement, cherished completely.

Bolly. She threaded a hand through his hair, tight against his scalp. Alex. One leg hooked around his waist, her other hand pressing to the base of his back, driving him deeper. Binding them closer. Her eyes traced over his face, contorting with the effort to satisfy her but still calm, more open to her than in so many other moments that had passed between them. So beautiful.

Alex. She adored it when he called her by her name, unguarded. She needed to hear him say it more often. I don't...oh, Christ.

She loved it when he surrendered himself, something that was never easily done, always fighting to the very last moment. She whispered that it was okay, that she wanted him more than anything. All of him. In all of those moments she never lied. Feeling him break apart gave her an indescribable rush, like being reborn. The logic of it was ridiculous but it always made perfect sense to her in those wondrous, perfect moments when nothing else existed except for two bodies joined, two hearts thundering, striving to outdo one another for the capacity they could hold within.

Every time she gave a little bit more of her heart, a bigger portion of her soul. It was dangerous, she knew. Fatal.

There was always a war in her mind.

I can't go on like this.

How can I ever leave?

Breathing, living. Loving, more and more each day.

At night, it was all she was.

She felt good in herself, strong. Ever since Operation Rose had been uncovered to the light of day they had been rattling through cases at a speed of knots, down in no small part to her contributions. It was like all of her senses had been sharpened, she was picking up on things that would have passed her by without a second thought before. It didn't occur to her that she could be suffering in the other realm – her real life, though this one was doing a very good impression. She must have fought off the infection, the antibiotics doing their job successfully. Whatever was in them they had worked incredibly well, in this world at least. She didn't seem to have the time to ruminate on why she hadn't woken with a start in her hospital bed, 1982 nothing but a memory in vivid technicolour.

She still made notes, when she wasn't occupied by work or living it up in Luigi's. Or in bed with Gene. They would help in the long run, she was convinced. She couldn't piece it all together now but they would be vital in time. She was sure of it.

The thought had crossed her mind several times, evidenced by the amount she had written his name in a clear hand. Was Gene the cure? He had saved her from certain death with the shot he had fired, flying against everything she had seen in her dreams and was sure would come to pass. When darkness crept upon her in the dead of night, the time when she would let her mind retreat, her sanctuary was to think of his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest as tears of fear streamed from her eyes. It's okay, it's alright. His voice clear in her head, while he slept so close by her.

It's over now.

Not yet. The ticking, the voices of the doctors and nurses had been silenced. There was nothing but what she was experiencing now. A piece of the puzzle that wouldn't fit, no matter how she considered it.

With him I'm strong, maybe stronger than I've ever been. But does that mean that without him, I'll perish?

Something that could be saved for another time. For now she would sleep, the same as him, dreaming of nothing, feeling safe in the knowledge that he was next to her. Tomorrow another day to take on those foolish enough to believe that they could pose a threat.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Everything was so easy when the simple act of breathing was the biggest focus.

Everything was fine until they got a call informing them of a murder.

Shivers snaked through her on surveying the scene, pulling her firmly out of the equilibrium she had settled into. The crimson blood stains standing out against the grey tones of the washed-out winter's day, the Quattro parked not too far away, another streak of red against the bleakness.

It was only yards from the place where she had been shot, near the river and the non-existent Millennium Bridge. The victim a woman in her early to mid thirties, smart business suit, professional. A bullet hole left between her eyes, her head thrown back. The difference was that she was sitting in the driver's seat of a car, the windscreen of which had been shot through too, splinters of glass covered like a sheet over her lifeless body.

She hadn't been marched to her death – But I am not dead. I am still fighting – but instead had been taken unawares.

Not enough time to get away.

She watched frozen as Ray and Chris picked carefully through the debris for further evidence and distinguishing information of this poor nameless, defenceless woman. It felt unnerving to be standing there as an observer, a witness of sorts, like someone or something had buried into her brain and pulled out the final moments that had kept her suspended, watching them play out in somebody else's existence. Put the end to it.

It couldn't be called déjà vu, exactly, but it was a strange, sickening feeling.

This can't possibly be a coincidence.

"Guv, Ma'am," Chris called out, holding the victim's handbag in the air, "we've got an ID."

He came towards them, thankfully, though Gene took a few strides forward, an arm extended as Chris brought the evidence forth.

A driving license confirmed the woman's name – Jillian Pearson – and date of birth: 22nd September 1948.

"That was my mother's birthday," Alex blurted out, feeling Gene's eyes turn towards her. "I mean, not exactly. She was a few years older."

"I should think so," she heard him mutter, handing the document back to Chris. "Anythin' else?"

"Not really. Lipstick, some perfume...hey, Shaz has got that one."

"Alright, this isn't the bloody cosmetics counter at Selfridges!"

"Sorry, Guv." Chris continued to rifle through the contents of the bag, causing Alex to feel yet more disturbed. "Oh, 'ang on...looks like some photos."

"Let me know if there's anythin' tasty in there," Ray shouted from where he was still hunched over the side of the car.

"For God's sake, show a bit of respect!" Alex exclaimed, at a loss for any other words, anger and confusion bubbling up within her.

"Listen to DI Drake, Raymondo."

She thanked Gene silently for backing her up.

One by one Chris passed the glossy photographs into Gene's hands. Nothing out of the ordinary or accusatory, perfectly normal snapshots of a life well lived. Jillian smiled out of each frame, her eyes shining, vibrant.

Why was life so senselessly cut short, with such horrific frequency?

Alex noticed that she was alone in all of them, aside from one picture where she was hugging a dog, and she felt a strong sense of empathy with the woman who was not unlike herself, on the surface of things.

The final photograph from the selection sent a shockwave through her.

Cradled in her arms was a child. A boy rather than a girl, around eight or nine years old, with brown hair and green eyes that were as wide as saucers. He wore a gap-toothed grin, beaming towards the camera, thoroughly loved by the mother who held him tight to her.

Of course there was nothing to say that she wasn't an auntie, an older cousin, a close friend of the family.

But Alex knew different. She recognised the markers, the signs that only one mother could see in another.

The voice that had been silenced within her spoke louder as she felt her defences starting to crumble, leaving her exposed. Not a coincidence. Far too many similarities.

Perhaps Summers had been leading her astray, the perfect cover for the real danger.

Gene's gloved hand landed upon her shoulder and she started, despite knowing that he was her protector. She turned to look him in the eyes, needing a distraction from the thoughts she had been plunged back into, and saw that he knew she had been affected, even if he didn't know the full extent.

"Bols."

His voice echoed against her ears, sounding far-off. The sounds within her head were too loud, coupled with the memory of a shot ringing out – she couldn't say which one in particular – almost deafening her.

"You alright?"

She nodded slowly, looking up at him again. He took hold of her arm, led her away from the scene and towards the Quattro. It was largely ineffectual – Jillian's face was burned onto her brain, a reminder of her similar fate, twenty six years in the future.

Having Gene's hand circled around her did help, grounded her in a better moment.

"Look, if this is weird for you," he began, his gaze firm upon her, "given what 'appened with Jenette an' all. If it's too soon...you don't need to work this."

He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, the others being too preoccupied to notice. She was glad of his attention, even if she would have preferred to throw herself into his arms instead.

"No, it's alright. I'll be alright." She assured him with an even tone, betraying what she felt inside. "It's just...well, that kind of thing is always a shock to the system, isn't it?"

He looked marginally convinced of her off-white lie, offering a twitch of his mouth and patting his palm against her upper arm in a gesture that would have been more suitable for one of the boys.

Her mind was occupied for the rest of the day, until she could attempt to drown and dull her over-active senses with glass after glass of wine, and even that didn't do much to help. How could she have been so naive to believe it had come to a stop, giving her some free rein?

The clock in the back of her brain had started to tick once more.

She began to wonder if it had been her fault; for every day that she remained here, another life would be taken as compensation. I'm sorry, she told Jillian in her head, almost shouting it so that she would be able to hear. This shouldn't have happened to you.

It shouldn't have happened to me either.

She found herself the first one in CID each morning and the last to leave each night. If it wasn't for Gene she would have remained glued to her desk, poring over files and drawing out theories, making up for the time she had lost. Needing the redemption.

It had gone half past six when he emerged from his office, striding over to her desk. The rest of the place had been deserted as soon as the hour had struck.

"You'll give yerself a 'eadache," he murmured, his voice almost soft.

She looked up reluctantly from her notes, giving a faint smile so that he wouldn't worry or press questions upon her.

It's the least of what I deserve.

He remained at the side of her desk, waiting patiently as she packed her things away, letting out a sigh here and there. After what seemed like hours she had nothing more to fuss with, other than putting her jacket on.

They walked in silence out of the station, Gene nodding towards the night skipper as they headed out. On the street it was as dark as if it was midnight and it felt just as cold.

"You 'ad any more letters?" he said out of the blue, causing her to frown in confusion.

She had forgotten all about the lie she had told weeks ago, losing track.

"No," she uttered quietly, her chin dropping once she had looked at him to confirm the fact.

"Shame," he replied after a few seconds. "I could do with knockin' someone's block off, without the risk of any consequences."

She smiled despite herself; to placate him perhaps, even though there was little need. He'd do anything for her at the moment, be it throttling Pete, kissing her to chase her fears away or, as she had requested the last few nights, simply lie next to her until sleep finally came after hours to quieten her mind.

The one thing he couldn't do, however, was determine exactly what was happening to her.

She was at a loss for that herself.

The interview room felt claustrophobic; Alex struggled to breathe, though the air was stale anyway.

The sooner this was over, the better, even if it wasn't to say that things would be solved so easily. After what had turned into something of a wild goose chase over the last few days they'd finally tracked down their number one suspect for the murder. Jed Barnes looked older than his twenty eight years – likely a testimony to a tough life, every day a fight for survival. In order to do precisely that he'd turned to theft and drugs, and was now one of the most prominent underground dealers on this patch of London. He was a long way from the top still, a cog in a very large and complex machine, but a significant one all the same.

Stretching from just below his left eye down his cheek was a wide scar and his head was shorn close, dark prickles dusting his crown. Aside from being thin they looked nothing alike and yet Alex couldn't help but be reminded of her assailant.

Perhaps there is a connection to Layton, somewhere along the line. Barnes could well be part of the empire he had spoken of.

The images came back to her; seeing Layton in Wormwood Scrubs, staring him down behind the partition of glass. Begging for information about the bomb that blew her young life into pieces, hoping that it would reveal something about her future fate at his hands.

As Layton remained at the forefront of her mind, Barnes caught her eye. His face was impassive, unmoving, but she could have sworn she saw the spark of something underneath the surface as their gazes met.

She would not be reduced to begging and pleading this time around.

She took a surprisingly easy breath, leant back against her chair as the air filled her lungs. As she did so Gene leaned forward, arms upon the desk, taking her previous position.

"Jed," she said, starting off simply.

"My name's Jeremiah."

The defiance didn't throw her off course, even if she was a little surprised by it.

"You go on the street by Jed."

He didn't stare, looked at her almost nonchalantly. "I was christened Jeremiah. Jeremiah Lawrence Barnes. And that is what I prefer to be called now."

"I'd prefer to call you somethin' else entirely, sunshine," Gene promptly interrupted. He shifted imperceptibly in his seat, casting a quick sideways glance to Alex. "'ow does Murdering Lowlife suit? If we're gunna call a spade a spade it's a good place to start."

Alex breathed in and out slowly, so controlled that neither of them noticed. Jed – Jeremiah didn't say a word in the light of Gene's retort to defend himself, leaning back on his own chair.

Gene slid one of the pictures they had held back across the table, while Alex gave the further details.

"Jillian Pearson. Thirty four years old. Secretary. Wife." Her throat threatened to close up completely before she could utter the next word. "Mother."

"She was found near Bankside last Thursday mornin', bullet right between 'er eyes. Know a few people who are fond of that particular move. And we know you know them as well."

Barnes moved forward to get a better view of the photograph, Alex watching him study the woman in the frame.

"Pretty," he drawled, his accent just as thick London as Gene's was characteristic of Manchester. "But I've never seen 'er before, I'm afraid."

"Bullshit," Gene hit back like a ricochet. "There's no point in lyin', Barnes. I should tell you that my record for nailing scumbags is without a single failure. So you might as well own up now because I wouldn't want to keep you up needlessly."

He didn't flinch in the line of fire, stretched out again leisurely. Gene leaned further forward, attempting to intimidate Jed into speaking. When that tactic didn't prove successful he got up, the sound of his discarded chair rattling upon the floor.

All the while Alex remained in place, hands placed calmly upon the table.

"Not sayin' you weren't clever in coverin' your tracks. You've obviously learnt a thing or two from those friends of yours."

He paced the floor, the click of his boots reverberating from the floor to the walls. The sound a familiar one to Alex, part of the cacophony she carried into her dreams. Not really the right term – they were something else entirely.

She noticed him stop at the side of Barnes, crouching down to his height in the chair, hands planted firmly in pockets.

"But, y'see, you didn't clean up after yerself completely. And, unfortunately for you, if there is the smallest piece of evidence left out to be found you can be damn well sure that my team will spot it."

He took another photograph from the inside of his jacket, held it in front of Jed's face.

"Now I'm not the expert, but I can tell that isn't bloody washin' powder. Is that what you did, Jeremiah? Shot an innocent woman through the 'ead and then did a line of coke off the bonnet of her car to celebrate?"

She shivered on the inside, conjuring up the scene in her mind upon Gene's vivid words. She just needed to stay in control, to breathe in and out. Not allow herself to get emotional and involved, even though there were so many similarities.

"Why did you do it, Jeremiah?" she asked, keeping her tone measured. She could have well chosen to launch herself over the table, raining blows upon his pathetic and remorseless face.

A reaction like that had been exactly what Layton had wanted.

She was not going to make the same mistakes.

A number of theories were in her head. The primary being a kind of inferiority complex, leading to behaviour of compensation. His insistence upon being called by his full name rather than the nickname that had acquired him notoriety was completely in line with that. He wasn't her first choice but Adler had been right about so many things.

"David Pearson. Jillian's estranged husband. You two 'ave a few pals in common an' all."

Jed didn't give anything away – or so he thought. The small jut of his chin downward and the rub of a thumb upon his knuckles spoke volumes to Alex.

"Mr Pearson isn't just a banker," Gene went on, "he also 'appens to be a druggie in his spare time. Likes the same kind of stuff as you do. Not entirely surprisin', given that 'e's been a client of yours for two years now. Almost exclusively."

Alex honed in on Jed's unwavering expression, trying to predict the moment he would crack as Gene hovered at his shoulder, his persistent presence usually enough to break the most hardened of criminals.

"But lately 'e's been shoppin' around, which is not good news for you. Losin' one of your most valued customers. Stings, especially in the pocket."

They had discovered that David Pearson had racked up quite a large debt, most of which could be traced back to Jed. She was aware that divorce settlements weren't cheap, though the Pearsons were in the early stages of their separation. Still he wouldn't be able to pay out for a long time, which was not news a dealer wanted to hear.

"Get rid of the primary drain on David Pearson's finances," she uttered from the other side, balancing out the interrogation. "Once his wife was out of the picture, you could swoop in and claim what was rightfully yours."

Jed remained silent, the only movement he made was to bring one hand up to pluck at a brow.

"Come on, Barnes. The game's up. I would actually like to get out of 'ere before the taps run dry."

She took her eyes from Gene, who had decided to back off somewhat, and stared instead at Jed. He looked younger than his years now and she tried fervently to focus on the case at hand. Not see the face of the man in front of her shift and warp into that of another, the excuse for a man who had sentenced her to a personal hell.

"DCI Hunt is right, Jeremiah. There isn't anywhere left to run. If you tell your side of things here and now then it will be better for you in the long run."

Not by that much, perhaps a couple of years.

He raised his head, looking at her with a cold stare that sliced through her soul. There was a sudden jumble of noise, static screaming through her brain and surging beneath the surface of her skin. The darkened room thrown into blinding light for less than a second.

She turned her head quickly to Gene, trying to discern whether he had noticed anything. Evidently not judging by his unchanged stance, leaning heavily to the side of the table, arms crossed to his chest.

"Everybody underestimates me," Jed broke his lengthy silence, "nobody takes me seriously. Thinks I'm just a scrap of a kid, even though I've been workin' this scene for years. Think they can get away with muggin' me off. I had enough of it. Somethin' snapped."

He snapped his fingers together, the sound of it bouncing off the walls.

Alex straightened her shoulders unconsciously, kept her exterior calm and unaffected.

"Was easy, really. I 'ad more bullets but one was all it took. God, the high was incredible. On a level with the best gear I've 'ad. Maybe even better."

Her stomach soured; for a moment she thought she would have to run to excuse herself. Somehow she kept things in control.

He looked between the two of them, a slow smile curving his thin lips. "I'd do it again, in a heartbeat."

"You wouldn't." She knew when people were bluffing. Even those who believed they could tell the most impenetrable lies always slipped up somewhere. They were all only human, although sometimes and with some people she had trouble in seeing that humanity.

He sniggered, looking down at the hands he fumbled with. His inhale of breath could be heard echoing in the room; Alex felt a certain pressure come towards her as Jed leaned forward on his chair again.

"Try me," he muttered.

Before she could absorb the threat – if that's indeed what it was – Gene threw himself forward, hurling Jed up from the chair by his collar.

"You know, I've come across a lot of shit-stains in my esteemed career, but you," he spat the words into the unflinching face of Jed, "are one of the worst."

It was hard to see completely, with the angle that Gene held him at, but Alex could indeed make out the smirk of satisfaction upon Jed's lips.

Gene threw him back down onto the chair, Alex half-surprised that the legs didn't give way with the force.

"You ended the life of a young woman. Completely blameless in the tussle between two men." How often it went that way; the cruel reality made her despair. "But you also left a child without his mother."

The question of "why?" remained unsaid, sitting held between her tongue and lips. It would have been pointless to ask, so instead she let the weight of what had been done needlessly hang in the air, hoping that it would have some impact somewhere down the line.

The eyes that had been for the biggest deal of time spent in here almost lifeless sparked again.

"The world is a messed-up place. I found out before I should have, so I'm just passin' the knowledge on." He gave a shrug of his shoulders, as though he was stating the most trivial of facts. "Life is hard."

"Well your life's about to get a hell of a lot harder from here, sunshine, but you should be tough enough to deal with it. Just one word of warnin'," Alex watched as Gene crept around again, his mouth lowering to Jed's ear, "don't go droppin' the soap."

While Gene exited the room Alex stayed a few moments more, needing to draw strength to rise from her seat. She hadn't quite expected the interview to take so much out of her but then again the case did hit somewhat close to home.

Home. Those strange echoes had come, too fast and too much at once for her to properly comprehend. Had she even really encountered them or was it a product of too much thinking? The after-effects had left her woozy, her legs leaden when she did finally manage to get onto them.

As her mind whirled unsteadily she felt Jed Barnes' eyes upon her. Turning her head towards him with the intention of getting the upper hand she ended up being paralysed by his hard stare.

"You know that this is part of a bigger picture, don't you?"

His voice seemed to shift, take on a different guise to the hard-edged London tones. Small spots of light appeared in front of her eyes, too fragmented and fractional to hold on to.

"I don't..."

He smiled, different to the way he had done before when taking ownership of his terrible crime. A hand shot out, snapping towards her wrist, and she reared back before he could make contact, nearly losing her footing.

She felt weak, the effort to breathe a near unendurable task.

"It's only the beginning, D.I. Drake," he murmured, his mouth curving higher upon one side, "Alex."

She had stayed at her desk for the rest of the afternoon, trying to keep her head down and use urgent paperwork as an excuse for not engaging in small conversation. She felt awful, both shivery and sweating, and it didn't seem to matter that she told herself that the sensations would pass – like countless others before.

Something was different about this particular permutation.

Summers hadn't been the end of it. She had realised that, given the fact that she was still here, in a place that she couldn't possibly belong. And yet she had not expected this, had allowed herself to be thrown off-course.

The words that came from the mouth of their latest conviction ran around her head. It's only the beginning. The beginning of what? The end? She'd had to face so much, she didn't know if she had the strength to take anymore. She felt depleted, running dangerously low. Listening out for an update, some kind of hint of the direction she should take. A vital clue that would guide her home.

She envisioned herself in her hospital bed in her mind's eye, looking pale and lifeless. Time wasn't up, not yet.

The shadow of Summers was cast once again, backed up this time, no longer fighting alone. Looming larger in her head, overpowering every part and sense, so much that she felt herself being invaded.

Do you know that you've only said one word since you got there? Just the one.

Her eyes drew up from the narrow field of vision that she had purposely restricted herself to, looking towards the closed door and the half-open blinds.

She waited until the rest of CID had departed for the evening – glad that nobody was there to see her struggle to make it the short distance – and entered his office before he could emerge to meet her. Her expression was apologetic, catching him as he was reclining in his chair, half-defeated from the day.

This isn't the right time.

She was worried what state she would end up in if she didn't say anything.

He straightened up quickly, rising to meet her gaze level across the room.

"Reckon we deserve to treat ourselves tonight, Bols. The equivalent of the North Sea, for me and for you."

She faked a smile, knew that he didn't need her to expand.

"Um...any news on the Operation Rose fatality?" she questioned, tentative.

He frowned, drawing closer to her. "The bloke who pointed a shooter at you, you mean? Not a sausage. Thinkin' it'd be easier to find an ID for the Invisible bloody Man."

She swallowed hard, though it did nothing to get rid of the lump that engulfed her throat.

She had absolutely no idea how she was going to begin; however she phrased it, it was going to sound completely crazy. Her silence spoke volumes.

"I...I knew him," she blurted out before he could start to get too suspicious of her raking up old news, "That is, of sorts. We're from...we're from the same place."

The silence returned for a few seconds before the pout upon his face dissolved. "Well, that might explain it. You're more than enough to drive someone to it a lot of the time."

The scene from her recurring dream flashed up in her mind, Gene taking the position of Summers.

"No, it's not...Gene, this is going to sound insane. But I swear, it's the truth." Her hands fumbled in front of her, her head felt like it had been set alight. "And I should have told you sooner. But I thought that I had to...I didn't think I'd get the chance, not once Operation Rose came to light."

His lack of verbal response unnerved her, especially after everything that had happened with Barnes today. His eyes fixed upon her, delving deep.

"Don't keep me in suspense then, Bolly."

Her heart felt as though it was plummeting past her feet.

"There is no ID for him because..." – God, are you really going to do this? It'll be the end of everything. She breathed in deep, not helping the dizziness in her head. "Because he's not from here. He's not from this time."

His expression quirked, as much confusion apparent as he was willing to let on.

There's more of the story to tell.

Oh, so much more.

"He is – well, he was Martin Summers."

An interminable length of silence passed. If it's going to happen, please just do it now so that we can both be spared.

"Summers?" Gene finally said. "A relation, then."

She shook her head, feeling her heart cracking within her chest. "No. He was a Detective Inspector. But in 1982, he was a Police Constable."

"But -" he faltered, "I dunno if you've checked a paper, but it is 1982."

She inhaled sharply, expelling the breath quicker than she should have done.

"I know. At least, here it is. But PC Martin Summers and DI Martin Summers are one and the same. One died, but he wasn't supposed to. I was...I was there when he did it. And he put the gun in my hand, Gene. It's in my drawer. Summers shot his younger self, right in front of me."

Silence again. She couldn't bear the sound of it, but the sound of her own voice – sounding like she had gone stark-raving mad – wasn't a great deal better.

Her eyes searched his face, sought his out when they evaded her.

"Change of plan, Bolly," he said, the sound of his own voice creating an echo in the room, "I don't need to get you blitzed tonight."

She laughed, a knee-jerk reaction, unstoppable.

"I know. I thought it was all in my head, but Summers was here. He was from the future, and I...I am too." She let the revelation sink in, unable now to snatch it back. It sounded just as strange to her own ears, but it was an incredible relief, too. "And I know that I have to get back. I thought that Summers was the one who was going to get me there, but it wasn't...I'm so confused, Gene."

He shot her a look from where he had sat down on the surface of his desk, saying you're confused?

Still, she had been expecting a lot worse.

"The future," he said quietly; she almost strained to hear him. "Where exactly is that then?"

"2008. Twenty six years from now." She kept her eyes connected with his, wanting him to know that she was being completely honest with him. "I was shot, and I woke up on Markham's boat. I had no idea where I was, and I was so frightened. And then there was this car, and those boots."

She dropped her gaze for a few seconds, taking in the familiar snakeskin apparel upon his feet.

"And you."

He looked to her again, something within his eyes. An element of reality in this deeply unreal world, something that she hoped she could hold onto.

"I know why I came back to 1981." She felt herself sinking even lower, her stomach tightening and heart beating uncomfortably fast. "Tim and Caroline Price...I'm their daughter. I'm Alex Price. I thought I came back to save them, but I couldn't."

She struggled to hold back her tears thinking of everything that had happened, the memories that she'd had to relive.

Gene continued to stare at her; she had not the faintest idea of what was running through his mind.

"And now I don't know what I have to do, but I think it's going to happen soon...Jillian Pearson, she was shot in the same place as me. I think it might be some kind of warning...but I'm so tired, Gene. I'm tired of trying to think, trying to fight...but I have to do it. I have to get back...to see my daughter. She's going to think I don't care. That I don't love her anymore."

Summers' accusations were haunting her, revolving round and round in her head, driving her mad.

What would she think to her mother forgetting her, replacing her?

I never would.

It was all too much; thinking of Molly, confessing to Gene. She felt as though she was splitting into two here and now, the pain that pulsed through her nerves agony.

"Ey, Bols." He was in front of her as she looked through tear-blurred eyes, arms open to her.

She crashed into his chest, weeping freely. His arms went around her, making her feel safe and secure.

The one constant.

He could have deserted her, but it all seemed unbelievable now, that she could have ever considered that.

Nothin' can hurt you, not while I'm 'ere.

Her tears ceased eventually, she felt his grip upon her loosen. She gazed up at him, one hand held to the left side of his chest.

"I've wanted to tell you for so long, Gene." She still struggled to catch her breath. "I should have done it sooner, but I was scared...but I owe you the truth. I always have."

He didn't say anything in response, stared past her shoulder instead of looking at her. His arms were still held loosely about her waist.

"You believe me, don't you? Say you believe me, Gene."

She stared up at him for a few seconds before his eyes met hers, relief prematurely running through her.

"I believe yer."

A small smile lifted her lips, her arms winding around his shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispered, lifting herself onto the toes of her boots, bridging the small gap between them and pressing her mouth to his in a small but meaningful kiss.

If she could have held herself in that moment in time forever she would have very seriously considered it.

She unfurled herself almost shyly, stepping back from him, unsure where to put her hands or direct her gaze.

"Um...I think I'll go back to the flat and freshen up first, but I'll see you in Luigi's?"

He nodded. "Yeah...I'll see you."

She smiled, though the chaos inside her hadn't yet time to settle and her feet still felt unstable. The same smile persisted as she left the office, taking her steps carefully.

All the same, the biggest weight had lifted from her shoulders.

Gene waited a couple of minutes longer until he was certain that she had gone, unsure of whether to sink his head into his hands or pour himself a large measure of whisky. After a few minutes more he decided on the latter option. He couldn't stay too long; they'd all be waiting at Luigi's, Alex included.

He winced a little as he threw the contents of the glass down his throat, never having that kind of reaction before. Truth be told, he didn't really know what he was feeling.

All he was certain of was that he'd have to put a hell of a lot away tonight to even attempt to make sense of everything he'd just heard.

A/N: I admit to knowing next to nothing about psychology, but I had to sneak in a reference there for my girl Alex.

And I'm finally getting to look at things from Gene's POV!