A/N Thanks for all the reviews; I'm really glad that it's not completely unintelligible! Anyway, on with the craziness...
Everything We Apprehend
Chapter Four
October 1981
"Are you stalking me, Mr Hunt?"
"Better things to do with my time," he said casually, as he continued his descent on to the chair opposite hers, noting the vague smile on her lips and waving a full, freshly opened, bottle of house rubbish in front of her, "Than run around after posh mouthy tarts." He slowly refilled her empty glass without another word, gave her - and her rather unconvinced features - a quick smile, then placed the bottle on the table and took a sweeping glance behind him. Nobody else seemed interested in the two of them; in the background Ray was leading the rest of CID into a long night of boozing, and heckling Luigi, whilst Chris was sat to one side with Shazza – all completely oblivious. Sometimes it felt as if there was only himself and Alex in this world. Shaking off that thought and assured by the normality of the scene he turned back towards her, his eyes carefully roving over her as she took a large mouthful from her glass.
Alex propped her head up on one hand, the other resting on the stem of her glass, at his actions and met his gaze. Eyes still showing her doubt at his rebuttal she watched him carefully, considering him and his answer with what he suspected was a rather tipsy mind. "I know what you're doing," she said finally, quietly, her eyes still on his, sharp and apparently not as affected by the booze as he'd thought.
Startled by her words, Gene took out a cigarette, casually lighting it and taking a long drag, as he kept her waiting. Despite his denial, he had been practically stalking her. He didn't like to think about it that way, more that he was looking out for a member of his team - not that she made it easy for him. When he'd felt that horrible foreboding lurch in his stomach at the thought of Layton getting anywhere near her he had figured, rather than just mention his concerns to her because she'd probably kick off about being able to look after herself, that it would be a fairly easy job to keep her in his sights, keep her close to him, keep her safe; as his DI she was obliged to report to him and out of office hours she could usually be found propping up the bar right next to his very good self - simple. But he'd completely forgotten that nothing was simple where Alex Drake was concerned. She'd lost him twice over the last week – much to his displeasure – thankfully to reappear at the station on both occasions before he could make a complete fool of himself over her; subtle, and not so subtle, interrogation about her whereabouts had been met with fairly plausible answers but he didn't quite believe her. He blew out the smoke to one side before he finally spoke. "And what's that, Bols?"
Alex hesitated, her eyes narrowing further at him, evidence that she still didn't buy his act of innocence. Maybe it didn't suit him. Maybe she could just see straight through him. The hand holding onto her glass fiddled slightly with the vessel as she finally answered, "You don't need to worry about Layton – I'll deal with him." It was both an acknowledgement that she knew what he was doing, that she could actually see straight through him, but it was also a demand that he stop.
He took another hit of nicotine as he returned her gaze, mulling over her statement. He had been certain that Layton could be a threat – and that she'd thought that way too, though why she hadn't mentioned it had puzzled him. That curiosity had made him hold back too, waiting to see when, and if, she'd speak up but it had been Chris who'd made the link next whilst they were on the drive back to the station. Gene hadn't seen Alex's reaction clearly but he'd heard her words of encouragement towards the DC; at the time he had wondered if she really hadn't made the connection or if it was some psychowatsitology to throw them all off - now it seemed it had been the latter. Though why she should want Layton to herself was a different matter - one he couldn't quite work out.
They'd had very little else to go on with the Markham case: forensics had come back with nothing; the anonymous phone call had been traced back to a public phone box; the hitman was as dead of an end as it had been when Billy Dane had died; witnesses were non-existent and most of Markham's associates were claiming ignorance. Markham's murder could be filed away as unsolved and forgotten for all he cared – one less bastard pushing drugs the better – but it was Layton's possible involvement that kept the case under investigation. Thankfully, Layton seemed to have disappeared off the face of the Earth, which had eased some of his worries about her safety, but there was a niggling doubt; he'd underestimated the man before and he wasn't going to let that happen again. "Can't do that, Bolly," he said, his voice laced with authority as it hid the concern well enough.
She smiled at him again in response, as if that would make him change his mind. Rather worryingly, he thought, it just might. How many times had she talked him into doing something against his better judgement? Maybe it was for the best that he couldn't seem to find the right time or work up the nerve to ask her out again. "Nothing is going to happen to me that I don't want to happen," she said softly yet firmly, confidently even, as if she could predict the future (actually, sometimes she spoke as if she could) and she took a sip of her wine, her gaze staying determinedly on him.
Gene leant forward on to the table, struggling with both the thought that she didn't want his help and with how gorgeous she looked sat there, eyes twinkling from the wine, cheeks a little flushed, that air of determination hanging around her. Despite his earlier assertion about giving up on her, thoughts of having her, right there on the table, launched an invasion into his head, easily winning the battle against concerns about her streak of independence and how that could end up getting her into trouble. "And what do you want to happen?" he asked suggestively, catching her eyes, the question wide open to interpretation; it was much easier than just being up front - if she said no then he could always deny ever asking.
She mirrored his actions, leaning towards him, an enticing glint of need in her eyes making him think that this was it - they were finally going to do something about this, whatever it was, that sat between them - but then it was gone, pushed aside by an unstoppable wave of sadness and he felt that tsunami smother his hopes before she even spoke. "I want to go home."
He sat back a little and sucked on his cigarette as her statement rattled around his head, trying to ignore the sting of disappointment in his chest. She was always adamant that she was going home - she'd wanted to leave from the very moment she'd arrived - but she never ever did. He knew that she didn't mean 'home' as in upstairs in her flat or even 'home' as in here and now – she meant somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Far away from him. "Where's home?" he asked curiously, after blowing out a plume of smoke.
"With my little girl," she replied quietly, without really giving him a definitive, bricks and mortar, answer. She took another gulp from her glass avoiding his curious gaze as best she could as that sadness in her eyes still reigned supreme, wiping out everything that had been there before.
For a long moment there was nothing said; she was lost in her own world, of memories of her child, and he watched her quietly, uncertain of what to say to her and distracted by his own burgeoning thoughts. The urge to have her had abated, knocked aside by her admission, but it had been replaced with another, different, longing; he wanted to hold her, just take her in his arms and make all those bad feelings go away - but he didn't, he couldn't. How could he ever replace her daughter, how could he ever make her happy when there'd always be that sadness, when there'd always be something - someone - missing? She never spoke about her daughter, not really, though to be fair he never asked either. But whenever she spoke about her child there was always a trace of sadness; sometimes hidden by anger, sometimes by determination, but it was always there. He stubbed out his cigarette, offering her a faint smile that she didn't see as her eyes stared into her glass. "You'll see her again, Alex," he said softly, leaning towards her once more, and it didn't feel like a lie though, like on that boat, he didn't know how it could be the truth. But she was determined and strong and smart - and he felt sure that she wouldn't ever give up. He felt sure that she would see her child again. He felt sure that she would leave.
Her eyes wandered back to his with his gentle words of encouragement and she smiled briefly, yet thankfully, at him before her own gaze turned thoughtful; for a few seconds she scrutinised him closely, her own curiosity sparking into life before his eyes. "You know, sometimes I think you're real, Gene Hunt," she said softly, almost conspiratorially.
He sighed resignedly, briefly wondering if it would be better if she did just go home - wherever that was. Then he could just forget her, and her crazy ways, and move on with the life he had tried to make here in London. But he doubted that he'd ever be able to forget her. "And other times?" He asked reluctantly, afraid he was encouraging her and afraid of the answer too. Actually, had a good idea what the answer would be – she'd told him before, she'd told all of them before, many times over.
She shook her head lightly, her gaze dropping on to the now practically empty glass she was holding on to. "You'll just think I'm mad," she said finally, meeting his gaze once more with a wary smile.
He half smiled at her in response: "I already think you are."
She laughed softly then and nodded at him; in agreement or at some hidden meaning behind his words that only she understood he wasn't sure, but he enjoyed the view, a small smile creeping onto his face at being able to do that to her. She tapered off suddenly and scrutinised him further, her gaze sharp on his and his smile fading at the thought of what was to come. "Okay," she whispered, as if she was trying to convince herself of something and her eyes watching him carefully as she did so. "Cards on the table: this is all in my head. I was shot, in the head and on that boat, by Layton. I'm here, with you, because Sam Tyler told me all about you and Chris and Ray." She stopped there and knocked back the last of the wine, her eyes never leaving his, "You're all bloody figments of my imagination and I'm stuck here in my head until I can find a way home. And I believe Layton might just be the key."
Lost for words, though what could he ever say to that, he only sighed again and stared stonily at her. It was, as far at it went, a pretty good explanation (and now he knew why she was so intent on finding Layton) but she had to be mad - there was no way around it. At least she was consistent in her delusions, always telling him that this world wasn't real, that he wasn't real. He had an urge to lean across the table right there and then - and it wouldn't take much, she wasn't that far away - take her head in his hands, and kiss her; prove to her that he was real and not some figment as she seemed to believe. Because he didn't want her to be mad - but he was torn between the possibility that she was and the chance that he might just be mad himself for wanting to believe her.
"Don't you ever wonder, Gene? Why I want so desperately to go home, to see my little girl, to see Molly, but I never actually leave?" she asked quietly into the silence, her words and tone asking him to look further, to dig deeper, to believe her.
"You're my DI - you can't just up and go," he said firmly, silently acknowledging that, in fact, she could just walk away but not wanting to question why she hadn't because she couldn't possibly be telling the truth. The way she acted, when she wasn't spouting off nonsense like this, it was as if she believed this world was real - he'd witnessed how devastated she'd been when the Prices had died, how she had fought tooth and nail for Shaz. If none of this mattered, if this was all in her head, why would she bother?
"Yes, I can. And I would, too - if it was that easy I wouldn't be here." She took a hold of the bottle he had brought over and poured out anther glassful, ignoring his gaze until her task was completed. "I'd go home," she reiterated, more determinedly and took a sip from her replenished glass. And in that moment he believed her; not necessarily everything that she had said, because how could he not be real, how could his grief at losing Sam be fake or his, rather confusing, feelings for her be imagined? But he did believe that Alex wanted nothing more than to be with her child.
He frowned to himself as a sad smile crept slowly onto her lips. "And I thought it was my charm and good looks that kept you here," he said jokingly, but the tone hid the truth of his words as it hit him then that he never wanted her to leave; somehow, and somewhere down the line, he had begun to think more of her than just some bird he wanted to shag.
She smiled briefly at him, the gesture warm and gentle and not refuting what he'd said; but, as before, it fought hard against the tide of sadness that seemed to follow her around before eventually succumbing. "Layton's got to be my way home," she whispered, meeting his gaze firmly. "But I need to do this alone, Gene."
He sighed again, his eyes heavy on her, his thoughts even weightier. She bore his scrutiny well, not ceding an inch and he found some comfort in the thought that she could be quite tough when she wanted to be. Maybe if he let her do this then this crazy talk would stop; if it all failed, if nothing happened when they caught up with Layton - and how could anything actually change - then maybe she would come to her senses. He finally nodded, the action slow and deliberate, and followed it up with an, "Okay". But, despite his agreement, he couldn't let her do this alone.
