First Person Shooter
Set after season 1. Alex is distraught by the death of the Price's and Gene can't understand why. He decides to cheer her up the only way he knows how: guns and leather!

He turned around and she was gone. Again. The doors banged shut behind the hastily retreating figure of his DI. Gene sighed. He didn't understand it. It had been three weeks since the fateful day, since they'd witnessed the Price's car explode and she didn't seem to be getting better, in fact, Alex was getting worse. For the life of him, he could not understand it. The Prices had been vile people: fact. They'd let probably hundreds of rapists, murderers, white collar tax evaders walk away scot-free, and Alex seemed to have taken their deaths very personally for some inexplicable reason, grieving for them like they were her own family. He'd tried everything to get her to snap out of it: being sympathetic, shouting at her, ignoring her, offering to take her out to dinner- nothing made a blind scrap of difference. Alex's unhappy attitude was really beginning to affect team morale. He had to do something. A leap of faith, a gesture so grand, give her so much responsibility she would have to get over it, step out and be the 'old Bolly' all infuriating curls and cut-glass accent.

He found her on the roof, behind a water storage tank. It was a secret hiding place, Ray thought Gene didn't know about, he'd obviously told Alex about it. The DS had been surprisingly, almost uncharacteristically, sympathetic to Alex's grief. He'd been caught up in a car bomb himself in Manchester and the trauma had lasted months, years, maybe it had never been fully resolved. It seemed to be Ray who was getting through to her more than anyone else then bang! She'd retreat into her shell again, faster than a cheetah on acid. She was sitting, her back against the metal, crying silent tears. Her eyes didn't open when she heard his footsteps, emotionally numb. Gene felt like screaming, exploding with rage, wailing at her to snap the fuck out of it.

"Go away," she said, dully, her eyes still shut, tightly closed. Like if she didn't open them, he might go away.

"No." He kept his voice calm and even. He just watched, refusing to react, refusing to back down. He waited, trying to be patient, until she'd be forced to open her eyes and acknowledge his presence. She had to eventually, she couldn't keep her eyes closed forever. Gene didn't know how many minutes ticked by it felt like forever. But eventually, predictably, her eyes fluttered open slowly, like the mere presence of daylight hurt her. He had the feeling she was about to tell him to 'go away' again but instead her eyes focused on what was in his hands. It worked. Her eyes opened more fully, and she asked,

"What's that?"

Bingo. Alex was probably the nosiest woman he'd ever met. She'd never be able to resist this.

"Thought black might suit you better. Since you're staying… you deserved a proper coat." He handed her the black leather jacket. It was brand new, real, with the smell to prove it. Slightly longer than the white version, at least it hadn't belonged to a dead person.

She looked at him, speechless for once. She stood and wrapped the coat around her. "I really don't know what to say."

This was progress. At least she was talking, she'd barely said a word in three weeks.

"Makes a change, Bolls." He chanced the tiniest smile, but she didn't return it.

"Thank you." She slid back down the metal again. She was trying to shut down, put the barriers back up. He had one last trick to pull, one last roll of the dice. Gene reached inside his coat pocket and handed her a piece of paper folded into thirds. "What's this?"

"Open it and find out."

She did, with slightly shaking hands. Her eyes scanned the text on the page before her mouth opened in surprise. She re-read the text more thoroughly, her eyes stoic, flinty. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, Alex." His voice was slow and calm. "Deadly."

"You're recommending me to be the first female in the met to receive advanced firearm training?"

"Yes, Alex," he repeated. "Be a lot of work. A lot of training with your senior officer. Lot of Saturdays on the range. Evenings. Have to cut back on Luigi's, both of us."

"You'd do that? For me?" She was still on the ground but at least she was looking up at him, her eyes didn't look so dead. For the first time in three weeks there was just the tiniest spark there, a glowing ember.

"Of course. Think you're worth it, Bolls. Besides, I told you: you. Leather. Gives me the right horn."

And there it was. The tiniest flicker. The tiniest smile. The tiniest hint of 'his' Alex back.

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Gene picked her up early at 07.30 on Saturday. Normally they'd both be sleeping in past midday, with heavy Friday night hangovers. Alex had watched Gene leave before 09.00 p.m. being subtle, not saying 'goodbye' to her or confirming their early morning 'date' so not to raise suspicion. Alex had followed ten minutes later, forcing herself to go to bed and get a good night's sleep rather than opening another bottle of wine and passing out on the sofa. She needed to be focused and sharp tomorrow, she needed to prove to Gene she was worth it, he wasn't wasting his time with her. She wasn't sure why exactly, but the faith he'd placed in her had really touched her. He thought she was worth it. He was risking a complete ribbing from his fellow DCIs, and he didn't care.

She hopped into the front seat of the Quattro, and he drove off, tyres screeching without saying a word. Alex hid a smirk; Gene really wasn't a morning person.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" Alex said by way of greeting, ten minutes into the drive as they sped towards the M11. She was surprised that they had to leave London.

"Essex," he grunted. "Be about an hour and fifteen they way these tarts are driving!" He beeped the horn aggressively at a driver he perceived was going too slowly, though he was driving at exactly the speed limit.

"And we're doing this drive? Every Saturday? For the next six weeks?"

"Correct." He flashed her a little smile.

She was suddenly nervous, her hands were in her lap, twisting together anxiously. "Just don't know what you see in me, that's all," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "I'm a fucking nightmare, especially since-"

Gene slowed for a traffic light and looked at her. He had to stop himself for reaching for her hand, Christ, what was wrong with him? This woman had him absolutely tied up into knots. It wasn't about getting the glory, the kleos as she'd say (some posh Ancient Greek shit he didn't understand,) for her. The truth was, the selfish part of him just wanted her to himself on a Saturday. With no-one else around, no interruptions or distractions.

"Shut up, Bolls," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Stop whittering on, for once. You're worth it."

She dozed against the window, all the way to Wethersfield. The sky was grey and miserable, the slightest hint of drizzle against the window. Gene noticed, as they turned off the motorway, she was wearing the jacket he'd given her. It gave him the tiniest flutter in his stomach. It must have meant something to her. She stirred when he turned off the engine at their destination. Her eyes flickered open and focused on the sign: 'MDP shooting range.' He saw her shiver slightly.

"Nervous?" he asked her.

"What if I can't do it?" A rare moment of honesty. Alex always had this mask, this persona, like she had a core of steel. When they were alone together, sometimes she faltered. Her defences came down. Part of him loved it, her vulnerability, she only dared show to him, it scared the other part of him shitless.

"'Course you can!" Faux bravado. "Get in there. Do it. Don't shoot like a girl. Besides, first session is just training with your DCI anyway."

"No-one has to watch?"

"Nope, no-one has to watch, Bolls, be just you and me."

She seemed to visibly relax then. They went to the front desk, signed in, and were handed their eye and ear defenders, alongside two Smith & Wesson model 10s, standard issue for the 1980's Met, but hopelessly outdated in Alex's mind. It felt slow and heavy in her hands, so unlike her 2009 Glock that felt so familiar.

As they made their way to the deserted indoor target practice range (because what other idiot would be up at 08:45 on a Saturday morning?) Alex put on her bright orange ear defenders and eye shield. Gene wondered, dumbly, how she still managed to look so bloody gorgeous. Not shaggable, not some other lewd thought: gorgeous. He thought she was the prettiest girl he'd ever met, her eyes. He could drown in them, sometimes he felt like he was. It was a feeling so alien, so foreign he couldn't even begin to wrap his Northern, neanderthal (as Alex would say) brain around it, and ninety nine percent of the time, it was easier not to. It was just, in moments like this, it slipped in, and he couldn't shake it. He watched her load the bullets: clean, methodical, cautious. Too bloody cautious, if a gunmen came at her she'd be dead. The gun looked awkward in her hands, heavy. He watched her take a deep breath, aim at the target and squeeze the trigger. Too slow. But she hit the blue circle, nevertheless. Okay, but could be better. He left her to fire her first six bullets and each time she hit the blue ring. Consistent, but not amazing.

Gene watched her load her next round of six, she seemed a little frustrated but there was no fire there. He took the gun from Alex and looked at the barrel. "Two-point five inch," he said. "Special issue. Reckon that's part of the problem, Drake. Think you'd do better with a two. I'll go and swap it." He left without waiting for a reply. When he returned, she was leaning against the shelf beneath the screen, lost in thought. Shit. He hoped bringing her to the range would help focus her mind, distract her from the Prices for a few hours. "Here," he handed her the slightly shorter and therefore lighter gun. "Try this."

She studied it for a moment and reloaded the bullets. He was probably right, it did feel a bit better, though not as light and as dynamic as her Glock. She lined up the gun and fired, hitting the red circle this time. Better but short of what would be expected of her in the next few weeks. She didn't want to make a fool of herself in front of the firearms trainers, or worse, make Gene look completely incompetent, like he couldn't spot a good firearms officer with potential. She still didn't know why he'd chosen her, if he was going to make anyone a specialist firearms officer Ray was by far the more obvious choice, he was a great shot and had nerves of steel. Gene watched her: five more bullets, five more hits of the red circle. She sighed in frustration.

"Let me help you." Skilfully, he loaded the bullets back into the gun with ease and confidence. It felt far too light in his hands, he preferred a 3-inch barrel himself, heavy, with a cylindrical gas ring. He handed the gun back to her and said, "Point it at the target." She did so. He adjusted her hand position, just a millimetre or two up, but it looked straighter, more on target. "Drop your shoulder." His fore and middle finger pressed just into her shoulder bone. "Relax, you're too tense, Bolls, like a nun in a brothel." It had the desired effect; a tiny grin and he felt her muscle soften notably under his touch. His own hands then wrapped around hers. He didn't ask but she didn't pull away either. That was positive. He thought back to the Edgehampton vault, God, they'd been so close to kissing: what would've happened if they had? Would he ever have let her go? Could he? His finger hooked over hers. "After three… one, two…" he squeezed, hard and fast, taking her by surprise. The bullet shot from the gun and hit the target clean in the centre, right on the bullseye. "Feel the difference?" She nodded. He, they, squeezed again and again, and each time, they hit the mark. Gene let her reload the gun and once again, six more rounds, together, and each time, the bullet hit the bullseye perfectly. "Your turn," Gene said, letting go. "Give it some welly."

Gene adjusted her, just tiny tweaks to her posture and, to her surprise, Alex hit the target, hit the bullseye every time. She got faster and faster, loading the gun with lightning quick speed, shooting, squeezing hard and confidently, with accuracy and confidence. After she'd fired 84 rounds in quick succession and when she was done, there were no more bullets to load, she threw her eye and ear defenders off, and put her head down on her hands, exhausted. She was sobbing.

"Alex?" he moved towards her quietly and softly, like he was approaching a spooked racehorse. To his surprise and his horror, she clung to him tight, whimpering into his chest. At first, he tensed, tempted to push her away but then she felt her hands clutching tight to his shoulder blades. She needed him. She didn't seem to have anyone else here in London.

"I thought…" her voice was completely muffled by his chest. "The Prices-"she was sobbing again, so hard she couldn't speak.

"The Prices what?" he gently coaxed. He wasn't angry he just didn't understand. Not one iota.

"I thought- I thought if I saved them… I could- I could go home. To Molly. Oh God, Molly." More hysterical tears at the mention of her daughter's name. "What if I never see her again?"

"Listen to me." He drew back and cupped her face in his hands. "You will see her again, Alex. Alex, listen to me, I promise. You will find her; we will find her." He traced away a rivulet of mascara from under her eye. It hit him then: Alex couldn't be happy here without this Molly. His mind was working overtime, running ninety to the dozen. If he could find Molly, maybe Alex would stay. With him. It didn't bother him Alex had a daughter, kids normally made him want to run a mile but not the thought of this one. Bolly's little girl, a mini-Alex. He almost smiled at the thought.

"You promise?"

"Yes, I promise, Alex, you have my word." And then he kissed her, just once, firmly on the forehead. "Just- let go. Let go of those bastard Prices. They're not worth it, Bolly. I need-I need my DI back. Can't do it without you."

She was still for a moment, like she was really thinking, really contemplating. Then she nodded. His hands still cupped her face. Then with a little nod, her eyes blinking away the last of her tears, she closed the gap and kissed him. It was very tentative and unsure, almost awkward.

"Right. Round one done," he said, back to being her DCI, back to professionalism, business-like. "You can take me to lunch."

She smiled, he was back to being Gene, her rock, her constant, with just the hint of much more to come. "Yes, guv."