Chapter 22

After my picture fades and darkness has turned to grey
Watching through windows, you're wondering if I'm okay
Secrets stolen from deep inside
The drum beats out of time

A door swung shut, leaving silence and the almost blinding light extinguished.

The absence of noise echoed against her ears, her own voice trapped in her throat. She wasn't sure whether her pleas, said what she thought was only a minute ago, had been heard. Even if they had, they were inevitably going to be ignored by the one person around to hear them. His voice, cold and calculating, reverberated, chilling the blood in her veins.

Falling. She felt like she was falling, further and further with each second that passed. So fast that she couldn't stop it. Her arms were immovable at her sides, her body feeling foreign to her.

Her heart seizing still in her chest.

Gene…it can't be true.

Music that brought tears to her eyes playing faintly, far in the distance.

She wouldn't accept it. Perhaps she had been confused at first, needed time to adjust, but now she knew that it was real. Not an illusion.

He'd saved her so many times. Now that his life was in danger she was going to fight. It wouldn't end this way; she wouldn't let it end like this, not while she was still breathing.

I believe this is real.

There was an echo in her mind; she saw herself in a blank room, hair tied back and wearing a suit. There was a file in her lap and she was facing someone in a chair, talking to them.

"Belief can be a dangerous thing, sometimes. Your mind can believe in something, latch on so strongly, that you can fool yourself."

Darkness shrouded everything but the image of herself, the falling temporarily stopped as she stared at herself, suspended.

Perhaps…was it him?

The other version of herself smiled at the faceless person.

"I know that you believe what happened to you was real. I'm here to help you work through it. I know it doesn't seem like that at the moment, but I am. Now, if we go back to the beginning, Sam…"

She gasped in a breath, as if it could stop the descent that resumed, her body and mind defenceless.

Gene…Molls…where are you, Molls, I need you to help me.

She could see the face of her daughter, as she was now, and she knew that she was saying something, something that would help, yet she couldn't hear her. All she could hear was white noise, the endless and deafening rush. Herself crying, screaming out.

Jim Keats and the threats he had made, the words that were designed to shatter her world.

I have to stop this, she thought.

Stop the falling.

Stop Gene from dying.

Darkness turned to light, a greyed-out kind, as though she were looking at the world through a filter. There was air beneath her, swirling and turning, carrying her through and over.

She felt it, felt the fabric of everything changing around her, within her.

Am I going back in time?

The clock on the wall was wrong. It had stopped weeks ago – maybe even months - but it didn't matter. Mostly, those who were sitting inside were either too pissed or had too much else on their mind to care. Gene fell into a middle ground, a desolation where he had set up camp and was comfortable; content was certainly a stretch too far.

Around him there was the sound of inane chatter and a bit further away, but still too loud for his liking, the droning of some god-awful noise that was supposed to be music, though it wasn't in the least bit tuneful.

…got your lipstick mark still on your coffee cup, oh yeah
Got a fist of pure emotion
Got a head of shattered dreams
Gotta leave it, gotta leave it all behind now...

For Christ's sake. Couldn't someone with half an ounce of taste pull a Herb Alpert record from somewhere, instead of having to put up with these whiny sods harping on? It didn't really help matters a great deal that the subject matter was cutting close to home, even after all the time that had passed.

He knew that he was a lost cause when it came to all that, though. He could still appreciate a nice-looking bird when one dropped by the station fretting over something, usually a no-mark piece of scum that they were shacked up with who'd done something that he promised would be the last time, leaving them with black streaming down their cheeks and spouting gibberish in a pitch that only bats could hear. Ray was typically the first on the scene with a cup of tea that was two-thirds milk and a comforting shoulder, as well as a chest to crush an ample bosom against. Something would stir within him at the sight – he was a bloke after all, with red blood coursing through his veins and heading to certain significant places – but the sensation would pass quickly after he'd knocked back a measure of scotch.

None of them could ever hold a candle to Bolly anyway, not in looks or any other department, so there really was no point. His balls were blue enough now that he'd become used to it, reckoning that he was going to end up as a subject of medical fascination once he'd popped his clogs, whenever that would be.

It couldn't come quickly enough for his liking. Time was going too slow, crawling at a geriatric snail's pace. Wasn't the opposite supposed to be true when you were getting on? Someone had to be having him on, adding extra months to his years just to prolong his misery.

And yet here he was, the incomprehensible coming to be. He couldn't understand it himself. Fifteen years to the day since he'd touched down here, this Southern shithole that now had its claws firmly dug into him. In all that time it had only changed for the worse, though he hadn't thought that could be possible. The streets of London were no longer just paved with shit, but with sights that would give the most hardened of bastards nightmares and have them on their knees, begging for mercy. All of it part and parcel of his daily life.

He didn't want to think that he'd become immune to it. He still gave a shit, otherwise he wouldn't be DCI Gene Hunt. He would have changed his name long ago, sodded off to the other side of the world to lie on a sun-lounger, frying himself to a crisp and drinking himself into a slow oblivion. Pretending like he'd never existed; if only he'd been so bloody lucky.

A fair bit had changed in the last fifteen years. Luigi had packed up and headed home to Italy eight or so years ago, for one. Because he couldn't be arsed going elsewhere for the nightly after-work drinks he'd put up with a couple of unsavoury changes to the ownership, with the latest incarnation being a wine bar of the ponciest order. All of those yuppie knobheads from the early Eighties would be in their element here, that was for certain.

Come to think of it, Bolly would have liked it too. He kept an eye out for her every so often, scanning the figures sitting at the bar or couples at candlelit tables. She'd be with that prat ex-husband of hers by now; hadn't she said that they were childhood sweethearts? He'd tried to blot those details from his mind, as foolish as it was to want to imagine that she'd had a completely different life, one with him instead.

He hadn't seen her, though. Not once, even in a passing glance, in the last twelve years. Typical that the world was working against him; it's not like London was that extensive, even if it did like to believe that it was the centre of the bloody earth.

The team looked very different nowadays, inevitable circumstances chipping away. Chris and Shaz had relocated to Essex to start a family in '86, sending along a load of photos twice a year and turning up at station get-togethers before each Christmas. Viv had retired in '90 with full honours – no less than what he deserved – and Terry, Poirot, Bammo and the rest had gone their ways one by one. New faces took their place, though not all of the names stuck with him, to his shame. Ray was the one member remaining, his old faithful and part-time second-in-command.

He felt a bit sorry for Carling at times, didn't want him to end up the same sad bastard that he was. There'd always been a bit of hero-worship on Ray's part in their relationship – he wasn't so blind and jaded not to notice it. He wanted to take Ray aside and tell him that he'd been wrong all of these years; he wasn't a hero out of a Hollywood western or the winning captain of the footie team. Nothing to look up to, going nowhere. It wasn't too late for him to look elsewhere, get another role model.

At the same time he couldn't bring himself to sour the one friendship that he did have left. The last couple of decades had to mean something, or else he would have wasted a hell of a lot of time.

Parker had gone to another force, moving into counter-terrorism, and since him there had been a string of DIs, some lasting longer than others and some more memorable. The current bloke, Nicholls, wasn't much to write home about but he was decent enough, knew when to shut up and get on with things, which was a nice change of pace and suited him down to the ground not to have someone talking his ear off all day or making out that they knew best.

She was in his head again at that point, but he was happy to concede to her. What he wouldn't give to hear her going on at him just one more time. Well, he'd say one more time, but he knew in reality he'd get greedy. That was his trouble; always wanting more, never knowing when to stop.

He restrained himself nowadays. No booze benders, as tempting as it often was to blur the edges of his existence to their limits. Laid off the fry-ups and chippy takeaways as well. His blood pressure was thanking him for it, if nothing else, and it meant that he could catch a few more scrappy scumbags on foot. He kept his head down, his nose to the ground and his eyes on the road. Nothing and nobody would be getting in his way, the rules his own to play by – they'd just been rewritten slightly over the past few years, but everyone was entitled to change a bit, weren't they?

The top brass came knocking on his door a few times, in the metaphorical manner of speaking. Suggested that the time had come to think about moving upwards. He wasn't interested in being a Super, though. A bigger amount of shit with more time stuck behind a desk? Not for him. He'd never been in it for the feather-preening, all the don't-you-know-who-I-am nonsense. Most of the Supers he'd had the bad luck of knowing had their heads so far up their own arses that it was a surprise that they could manage to keep breathing. It'd been a couple of years, at least, so no doubt they'd try him again soon, see if he'd changed his mind on the matter.

Honestly, it was like nobody knew who he was. He might as well have been a ghost.

He'd been giving more thought to Manchester recently. The love for his city had never left him, though he wasn't under the pretence that it'd all be rosy there; in truth it was probably in a worse way that London was. Part of him yearned to go and rescue it, build it back from the rubble to its former glory. He had visions of the Cortina racing through the streets, the comfort of The Railway Arms. Who knows whether the place was still standing or whether Nelson was behind the bar? Maybe going back would rescue him too, give him back the spark that had long burned out.

Another part of him reeled at the thought, scared of rejection. Too good for the likes of us now, he'd hear them say; the old faces turning away from him. He wouldn't be able to take it, didn't have the attitude to brush it off his shoulders like he once did. It might have been part and parcel of getting older, either that or being here so long really had turned him into a numpty.

Anyway, he had to stay, for her sake. He'd stopped waking up every morning with desperate hope consuming every nerve and fibre in his body, that that day would be the day when he'd see her again, even if it was for a matter of seconds and she wouldn't have the faintest clue who he was. He might as well go and put himself in the nearest loony bin than cling onto the chance of that happening.

Still, he felt compelled. Some things couldn't be explained.

Like why he was in love with an infuriating, self-important, clever and beautiful woman who came from the future, except that she was living in the same time that he was but was forty years his junior.

His head was starting to ache again, not helped by the din that had been turned up even louder.

He was about to rise from his seat – with the sole intention of putting his fist clean through whatever device was pouring out that bloody incessant racket – when a hand landed upon his arm, holding him in place. If he'd been ten years younger, or maybe twenty, he would have no trouble in wrenching it free and giving whoever dared a sock to the jaw for a freebie.

The look on Ray's face was hopeful, too cheery for his own good. He should make the effort, even if it wasn't going to make the slightest bit of difference.

"Last ones standing, eh, Guv? There's gotta be somethin' in it after the time we've put in."

Gene nodded his head in vacant agreement, training his focus as best as he could manage.

"Fifteen years. Didn't think I'd last fifteen minutes when we got 'ere. Not with everyone bein' so bloody stuck-up and the price of ale, as well Skelton askin' whether they sold Ringos in London, the daft twonk." He paused, shaking his head and looking off into the distance. "Do miss 'im, though. Not half as fun takin' the piss out of anyone else."

He listened to Ray reminisce about the past, let the words wash over him and the beer slide down. It was easy enough, at least to let a couple of hours go by. There were flashes of colour against the grey, and for a little while he felt victorious, more so than he had in years.

He saw her striding forward from the back of his mind, climbing out of the passenger side of the Quattro. An illusion to everyone other than himself.

"Fancy a proper night out to celebrate?" Ray's voice, which had become a distant echo, sounded louder to him once again. "We 'aven't done a pub crawl in ages."

There were several reasons for that, the most obvious being that they were both too far past it.

"Another time, eh?" Gene said, knowing full well that the time wouldn't come. Carling looked up at him with inevitable disappointment, and to appease him somewhat Gene pulled his wallet from his pocket, placing a few notes down onto the table.

"Guv, it's alright…"

"You can give it back tomorrow if you don't spend it. Or put it in yer piggy bank."

He cracked a small smile, pretending that it wasn't painful to do so. Ray nodded in recognition, pocketing the notes.

"I'll get a couple in for you."

"I still expect you to be in for nine on the dot."

Ray made a salute sign towards him. "Of course, Guv."

It wasn't that far to walk back to the house, and on the way back he had second thoughts about the offer but ended up dismissing them, longing to lay his weary head down. The only thing he could be bothered to do was draw the curtains downstairs before he went up, covered completely by darkness as he made his way to the bedroom, footsteps led by memory.

He wished he would have brought her here at least once, to have the memory of her in his bed. The nights wouldn't seem so long and cold if he had the sense of her.

She stayed in his mind though, looming over him as he stretched out, closing his eyes against the gloom and exhaling a deep sigh. Bringing her to life once more, as he had for every night since she left.

Alex…

If he dreamt for long enough then one of these days she might actually be there when he woke up.

She woke slowly, mind rousing before her eyes opened. In some senses it felt like she was wrapped firmly in a dream, settling back into her body after having floated somewhere else for several hours. The night had been separated into several acts but she was aware that she'd had the best sleep since she had been here, it feeling almost as though she'd slept for days. When her eyes did finally blink open, taking in the hazy sunlight that was filtered by the closed curtains followed soon by the glaring red display of the clock at her bedside, wakefulness hit her like a moving train.

Twenty past eight.

"Shit," she mumbled, sitting up. She knew instantly that she wasn't alone, and also that she was naked beneath the lone sheet that covered her in half-ratio.

Her superior officer lay to her left side, equally as naked and curled up, a lot like an overgrown toddler. It was funny that those should be the first two thoughts that intersected in her mind after the night they had spent together, both knowing precisely what they were getting into. Both of them one hundred per cent sober; not the slightest chance of blaming what had happened between them on drinking the equivalent of their body weight in the space of a couple of lost hours.

A flush of heat travelled through her body as she considered that this was her preferred outcome.

She nudged the sleeping lion at her side, met with muffled grumbling in response.

"Gene."

A few seconds, and she tried with a firmer prod and a raised voice.

"Bols," he answered, though she could tell he was still half-asleep.

"It's twenty past eight. We have to get up and get ready."

"S'alright, Bolly," his hand rose and, with alarming accuracy, clapped upon her left thigh over the satin of the sheet, "it's Saturday. We don't 'ave to be anywhere."

"It's Thursday, Gene." Or perhaps she should be calling him 'Guv' instead. They were a little over half an hour from being on the clock, though.

Anyway, she had said his given name more than enough in the last few hours for him to take any kind of offence.

He turned onto his back, blue eyes peering up towards her. To her surprise he was very relaxed about everything, not in the least that he was lying in her bed. It was almost like he was completely used to being there, completely oblivious to the novelty of the situation.

"Right," he uttered after a minute passed, one arm draping over his head, "well, there's not very far to go. Knew there was a reason I stayed put."

Before she could take offence, and the stab of pain struck her in the centre of her chest, a smirk crossed his face to tell her that he was being more flippant than she first assumed.

"Well, I'm going to get up," she said, after he made no effort to move.

"Suit yourself, Bols."

She stared down at him for a few seconds longer, the logical part of her brain fully conscious once more and trying fervently to process what had occurred.

Come on, Alex - she heard its voice at the back of her mind - it's not like you haven't been thinking about this for months.

"Okay then."

She hadn't realised that she was pulling the sheet with her until she felt resistance, Gene tugging it back from her grasp.

"Not shy, are we, Bolly?" his voice rasped from behind her, and she felt her cheeks burn, partly from the roughness of his tone. "I won't look if you don't want me to, scout's honour."

She peered over her shoulder at him, wearing a softer smile as she relinquished her grip of the bedsheet.

"I mean, I did get a bloody good eyeful last night, so it doesn't make that much difference…"

She scoffed a laugh, recognising that he had a fair point. She crossed the room to retrieve a robe from the wardrobe, aware that Gene was ogling her from the bed. If anything, she was flattered that he wasn't put off by the way she looked first thing and in the almost full-glare of daylight, the curtains preserving her modesty to a small degree.

Next time, she'd wait for him to get out first and return the favour.

Next time? Shit. She supposed she was serious about keeping the arrangement for the entirety of the month, then.

Well, she might as well have some fun. Who knows, she might not even be here in a week's time.

"That's quite enough gawping, DCI Hunt," she retorted, wrapping the sides of the black robe firmly around herself, doing so on purpose.

"Oh, I don't think it'll ever be enough, Bols."

She took in a last lingering look at his face – God only knew how he was going to hide that smug grin for the rest of the morning – before heading for the bathroom. The water of the shower took a few minutes to heat up, and inevitably her thoughts wandered not all that far as she waited, leaning herself against the tiles. Without alcohol to numb the senses and drown out the memory she was able to recall every detail of the night vividly, as though she could still feel his hands and lips upon her skin. The finally warm water only served to emphasise the sensations that crackled beneath the surface and she closed her eyes instinctively so that she could immerse herself further, the surrender of no consequence in her own space.

Three times, and each seemed better than the last. She supposed she could put it down to the fact that it had been a while. That would be fooling herself, though. Tomorrow she could well feel differently. Part of her had been so fixated for so long that it was only natural to react like this. She appeared to be craving the weight of him on top of her, the feeling of him inside her. Something in her mind reacted to the memory, seized upon it. Her hand had traced down her body, following the path of water. She gasped as her fingers pressed and prodded, feeling tender, still, but slick again at the thought of him. She bit her tongue to stop herself from calling out his name, his presence larger than life in her fantasy even though he was only a room away.

She kept stumbling, returning to the same few seconds over and over, a needle skipping on a record.

Alex – his voice clear, reverberating in her chest – open your eyes. Look at me.

Her heart didn't belong here, she knew. Yet in that moment, as she submitted to his order, she realised that she had left a piece of it with Gene Hunt.

He wasn't in her bed when she came back to get dressed, and she faltered until she saw that the spare suit and one of the shirts had been taken from where they nestled with her era-compliant clothes. She took a little time to do her make-up to an acceptable standard, miles behind in her usual morning routine, and then joined him in the living room, mug in hand.

"Could 'ave at least put the kettle on first, Bolly."

"Where are my manners?" she returned, bowing her head as he passed another mug to her, feeling touched by the gesture and trying not to think about whether he did the same for what she could only imagine were many other conquests the morning after the night before. "Aren't you going to get a shower?"

He looked at her over the rim of the mug while he sipped, before slamming it down on the counter. "Nah. Bit of Paco Rabanne where it matters, good as new."

She felt the frown on her face, despairing slightly at his evaluation of personal hygiene.

"Anyway, you took so bloody long in there that I'd likely 'ave met me maker before I got the chance. What the 'ell were you doin'?"

"Just what I usually would."

God, if only he knew. She was determined to keep a poker face in place, not give him the satisfaction.

A smirk sprouted on his face, and she feared it was already too late.

"I was surprised that you could still walk," he quipped, barely able to contain himself, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes ceiling-ward in reply. "Bloody 'ope I'm not losing me touch."

She was temporarily lost for words, the memories crashing over her again, the euphoria of him falling to pieces moments after she had reached such a perfect pinnacle.

"Um, you needn't worry about that," she half-muttered in response.

She returned to her tea, which was thankfully not doused with sugar, while he grinned shamelessly at her. Jesus, Alex, why did you have to say that? As if he wasn't insufferable enough. Still, it would have been unfair to lie, and she did feel compelled to reassure him that she didn't have any regrets, without speaking so plainly.

"Good stuff, Bols. Now, if yer knickers are firmly in place, we'd best get a move on. Don't want that lot thinkin' we've fallen at the first hurdle."

She kept one eye on him as she finished off her tea, not entirely sure whether it had sunk in as yet. The thought crossed her mind that, instead of worrying about Gene, she needed to be careful not to give the game away herself. For one thing, she wasn't sure how she was going to look Shaz in the eye without blurting the truth out on the spot.

He held the door open for her, and yet again she was pleasantly surprised by his chivalry.

"So," he began, eyes trained upon her as they stood at the threshold, "got any plans tonight?"

The beginnings of a smile hovered as a sensation upon her mouth as she returned his gaze for every inch.

"Not really," she answered, deliberately cool in her tone, "oh, I was going to see John."

"Who the bloody 'ell's John?"

She stifled her laughter at the predictability of his reaction, though she relished in it too, enjoying the fact that he was blatantly jealous at the thought of her with another man, even though they'd only slept together once…well, three times in total.

"Peel. Top of the Pops," she supplied when he looked more perplexed than moments before. "Oh, never mind. No, I don't have any plans. Unless you want to change that, Guv."

She knew the effect that would have on him, and was pleased as punch as he suppressed a groan and grasped his belt buckle.

"You might say that, Bolly," he said once he had recovered his composure. "Eight o'clock, up 'ere. Gives you about eleven hours to prepare for the full Gene-Genie experience."

If it was any other day she would have burst out laughing, no problem in believing that it was all part of his bluster.

She smiled in reply, stepping out an inch ahead of him.

"I don't know how I'm possibly going to control myself."

He knew it was going to be a shit day before he got out of bed that morning. Before he even opened his eyes to face it.

All of the morning and most of the afternoon was spent chasing a stupid sod around the city, from north to bloody south, until they ended up on top of one of the highest buildings not too far from the docks. Their culprit threatened to jump several times. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice a bit too much, but he also sounded unsure. Scared.

He didn't know why exactly, but he spent the best part of an hour talking to the lad – because that's what he was, he couldn't have been much more than twenty-two, twenty-three. The back-up received their orders to stand down while he stood there, going on. He felt like a right prat. It wasn't his strong point and he wasn't even sure what came out of his mouth made any sense. In the end it did the job and the younger man let himself be led away by Nicholls and Ray, who had kept their distance, no need for handcuffs.

Gene looked out at the grey landscape of the city, much wider from up here. More things being built, not big enough or grand enough to cover up the decay. He walked closer to the edge, pushing one foot nearer as he looked down, trying to work out how far it was to fall. Far enough. The thought latched on, growing temptation that he felt pulsing within his bones. All he'd need to do was put his arms out and keep walking until there was just air beneath his feet. He was getting too old for this. Not just the force, but all of it. The never-ending relentlessness, with no promise of any light at the end of the tunnel, only more darkness.

He took in a lungful of the smog-filled air – likely worse for him than having thirty a day – and took several steps back, fishing for the hip-flask buried in the inside pocket of his overcoat and drinking until he drowned the passing urge, not entirely sure that it wouldn't resurface. It would do to keep it quiet for now.

The news was waiting when they got back to the station; he only had to take one look at the officer from Central branch to know. He had hoped that the day wouldn't come, that the sorry maggot would be left to rot in his cell, but he'd been fooling himself. He wanted a distraction, something major to go off. He wanted to drink until he collapsed. As it went he was too full of anger to let a drop of booze pass his lips that evening. He took the car and drove until gone two in the morning; he could have gone to Manchester and back again, but instead he just went in circles.

What could he do, realistically? He spent weeks mulling the options over. Fit Layton up for something, the next big case that came their way. It was very bloody tempting but his principles kept making themselves known, despite his claims that it was perfectly fine to discard them in this particular instance. If he went down that road he'd be just as bad as all the bent coppers who'd come before him, the ones he'd spent his entire career fighting to stamp out.

Do nothing, except let his obsession slowly drive him insane. It felt like he was more than halfway to that anyway, so perhaps it wouldn't matter all that much. He called pages up on the computer in his office, though they told him nothing he didn't already know. He needed to know about Layton's next moves, not his history. Bloody internet, or whatever it's called. Absolutely sodding useless.

He thought about Keats, what he'd said when Layton was first put away. Seemed like one hell of a coincidence, that 1995 was here and now and the prophecy had come to pass. He'd looked up Jimbo on the internet as well and felt uneasy when a distinct lack of information was returned. It probably wasn't wise to start putting two and two together and come up with a number bigger than infinity, but something gnawed at him. There hadn't been hide nor hair of DCI Keats since he'd strolled out of the doors of Fenchurch East – still his kingdom, thank you very much – twelve years back, and that had been more than fine by him.

But someone like Keats didn't just disappear into thin air.

Moving on to another bottle, he ended up where he always began. Alex. What would she want? Probably not for him to spend what was left of his life being eaten up with this. She'd say some complex rubbish about letting go, ramble on way past the point of him listening. For all that he was bored and absolutely bloody irritated by it, he knew that she was right. She always was, as much as it pained him to admit it, even now when she'd been gone for years. Every day within them cutting him to the bone.

He wanted to argue back to the illusion of her, relive the days that he'd taken for granted. But I'm doing this for you. How many bloody times did I 'ave to save you from some nutter? Worse still, save you from yourself.

He saw her standing there in front of his desk, hands on her hips. Defying him, questioning his authority. He didn't know why he bothered.

Looking at her, he knew every reason why.

You can't always be the hero. Nobody is infallible.

"Speak English, Bollykecks," he found himself saying out loud.

She tilted her head to the side, reached out to take his glass and the near-full bottle away from him, and smiled.

It's okay, Gene. Everything will work itself out in the end.

Trust me.

He dared to blink, and the mirage was gone; all that was left was her words in his head.

When they left Luigi's that night there were a few raised eyebrows, accompanied by the odd smutty comment provided by Ray. On the whole they'd taken it well, though. She did have to wonder whether it had come as much of a surprise, although none of them owned up to suspecting or indeed knowing anything. Viv did raise a toast, which Shaz joined in heartily with and the rest of the team murmured along with. She couldn't stop herself from blushing at that, touched by the well-meaning gesture but also rather embarrassed at her work colleagues making a fuss over the fact that she and Gene were official.

During the encounter he'd put a hand to the small of her back, saying words that nobody else could hear that brought a smile to her face and made her feel better.

"All out in the open, then," he said when they were safely ensconced in the flat.

"It was about time," she replied, closing the door behind the both of them, "I'm not sure how much longer we could have got away with sneaking off to the stationery cupboard."

His eyes raked languidly over her body, and she was rapidly losing the grip upon her self-control.

"I dunno," he uttered, voice lowering as he stepped closer to her – or was it that she was the one moving towards him, being drawn like a magnet? "I was rather enjoyin' our inventories. You were very thorough in sortin' out the goods, Bollykecks."

"Aren't I always?"

"You'll hear no complaints from me."

His hands were on her waist and it made sense for hers to end up pressed to his chest. She felt the steady thump of his heart beating beneath her fingertips, and for a moment she let herself drift, thinking back to that very first day. If she ever thought she'd end up where she was now, with him like this…it almost seemed like another life.

"Alex?"

His voice brought her back, the depth of his gaze always retrieving her from wherever she was lost.

"Sorry, I just…"

The fingers of one hand smoothed against the silk of his tie and to the cotton of his shirt, made warm by what was underneath. She thought she recognised it as the one he had taken from her wardrobe the morning after they had first slept together, some three months ago now, and which he'd never returned, not that there was any need.

"It's funny how things work out sometimes. That's all."

All of her life, she'd had such an impulse to be in control. Even since she'd been here it had been the same. The constant need to know what was going to come next, trying to make sense of the unknowable. Mystery was the way of life. She was beginning to learn that and give in to it, just a little.

Making the decision to be with Gene definitely helped in that regard.

She could see it on his face; not worry, exactly, but a not particularly good wondering that had been stoked up by her words. Why couldn't she learn when to keep things to herself?

"It's been fun, keeping this as our little secret – "

He interrupted before she could continue. "Thought we'd agreed there's nothin' 'little' about me, Bols."

She gave him a look from beneath her eyelashes. He was all puffed up and she had no intention of puncturing his ego, not tonight.

" – but I'm glad that we can be us, now. No hiding."

A smile pulled at the corners of his lips, his hands cradling her at the base of her spine. Not for the first time she realised how safe she felt there, within his arms.

"Yeah," he said after a couple minutes of silence, "me an' all. Could bloody shout it from the rooftops, bein' with someone like you."

"If it didn't make you feel like a girly ponce," she fought the urge to laugh.

"It isn't what you say, it's 'ow you say it," he returned, causing her to shake her head a little in response. "Can't say that I'm not relieved, though. I know I'm not the usual bloke you go for, or would stick with."

She felt a pang within her chest, knowing that he was far more vulnerable than he ever let on.

"And that's where I've been going wrong."

She smiled wider to make sure he knew that she was being true, drawing herself nearer to him.

"No regrets, then?"

Only that she couldn't stay forever, as much as she wanted to. Now wasn't the time to think about that.

Instead she brought her lips close enough that she could speak straight into his ear, one hand at the nape of his neck and the other delving lower, her head already filled with expectation.

"No," she uttered softly, her own heart feeling like it could beat out of her chest, "there never has been."

A/N: We're in the '90s now! At least Gene is, where Alex is who knows...

Back For Good performed by Take That and written by Gary Barlow. (I don't think Gene would be much of a TT fan, somehow)

Some little references here to one of my other A2A fics, Addicted To Love, if you're looking for more / to fill in the gaps of what happened before.

Exciting news about a potential A2A/LoM sequel in the works! If it follows this the plot of this fic in any way, I'll be amazed :D :P

Also, happy almost 10th anniversary to A2A ending (21st May 2010). I might not have been watching at the time but you can bet I felt every inch of the heartbreak (and still do).