A/N After much deliberation I've decided to post the last chapter; this was the original ending and though it's a happier (?) one I'm not entirely convinced that it's a better one...
A/N 2 Big thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially those (you know who you are) who did so constantly - I appreciate the support. And thank you all for reading - I know you're out there, the little stats thingy tells me you are.
Everything We Apprehend
Chapter Seven
December 2008
She liked to tell herself that, as the time had passed by, she had managed to move on, had let all those feelings drift away and on the surface it seemed believable; her relationship with Evan didn't feel so stilted and time spent with Molly was most conducive towards that delusion. But she'd never really believed it, not deep inside where no one but herself could see; those long hours, when her daughter was at school and she was all alone in an empty house, could only be filled with so many distractions before her thoughts would eventually return to the life she was trying to forget and she would inevitably find herself thinking about him. Nearly always dreamt about him too; she just couldn't quite bring herself to let go completely - though maybe she'd been right not to.
Stepping out into unfamiliar surroundings she let the door gently close behind her, her eyes settling on a figure in the distance and she took a deep, calming breath, hoping to settle her nerves. A phone call had prompted today's excursion; it had come entirely out of the blue but the details - of a colleague who was recovering from a prolonged coma - had made her heart leap into her mouth. She'd almost hung up at first, she was supposed to be off work after all, but that last resistant seed of hope, the one that had battered through the rough winter of her denial and her vain attempts to stamp it out - the one that had held on at the thought of him, on that boat, staring at her daughter - had started to grow at the merest hint of light. She'd stumbled her way through the call in somewhat of a daze, hastily scrawling down the information she was given on a pad she kept near the telephone. Replacing the handset she'd stared at her own shaky handwriting for a full minute, her eyes glued to the familiar moniker of one 'DCI Hunt' and her head swimming with thoughts. She'd managed to get through the rest of the evening, with an eerie calm that surprised even herself, as if nothing had changed, as if her world hadn't just been turned upside down, as if everything she'd believed - everything she'd forced herself to believe - hadn't just been pulled out from under her like the proverbial rug. But she'd subsequently spent a sleepless night mulling the information over: trying to convince herself that Gene was real, that they had somehow met whilst they were both unconscious and that he had come back with her, for her; trying to convince herself that it just wasn't possible, that the name was merely a coincidence and that he would be a colleague who, having heard about her work with those who had suffered serious trauma, wanted to meet her.
Despite her turmoil there'd never really been any question of her not coming here; she could justify her actions, even just to herself as she seemed to be her only critic (probably because no one else knew), by telling herself that if he wasn't here, if it wasn't him, then it would finally kill off those last lingering hopes (though in reality she feared nothing ever would) and if he was here, if somehow he was real, then... Then everything might just be okay. But now, stood outside of the rehabilitation centre and staring out to the expansive grounds, she hesitated - unsure as to why. It wasn't just about the possibility of being disappointed, being devastated even, if it wasn't him. And it wasn't the possibility that even if it was somehow him he might not be exactly the same man she had known; she wasn't exactly the same person she'd been in 1981 either, she'd done things she'd never do in this world and Gene, the Gene she knew, couldn't be the same person here - there'd be differences. No, there was something else that was making her uneasy. Brushing away that feeling of uncertainty she took another deep breath, exhaling it slowly; she hadn't come all this way just to turn around and go straight back home. She had Molly, and she had her life back, but she wanted that bit more happier of an ending.
She took a step forwards, gliding through the unseasonably mild winter air but, glad that she had a warmer coat than that white leather jacket, she wrapped it around herself, her arms circling her stomach. Ahead, a little way down the path, the man in question - the man her future happiness rested upon - sat lazily on a bench, facing away from her and enjoying a cigarette. It was a good start and, as she headed towards her goal, her hopes began to rise ridiculously higher with every step she took. As she rounded the bench those hopes flew off the scale; the hair was shorter, and minus the sideburns, and the frame not so broad though that could be because he was sitting rather than looming imposingly over her - but it was him. Wrapped in a long dark coat that was reminiscent of the one she knew so well, that scowl, that familiar pout, was present on his mouth and her breath caught in her throat as her heart pounded furiously in her chest as if it was trying to break free. Her steps gradually slowed, her legs suddenly feeling weak underneath her and her arms loosened their hold.
He turned his head then, catching her in the web of his gaze, and she stopped completely, rooted to the spot, unable to find her voice and not sure that if she could locate it she would even be able to coherently express what was running through her head. She'd wanted this outcome so desperately but she'd also resisted it, afraid of the crushing nadir she'd experience if it didn't come true but now that it had she felt woefully unprepared for the floodgates that had opened. They stared at each other for a long silent moment; in awe, in uncertainty, in acknowledgement – each sizing the other up. He took a hit from his cigarette and casually blew out a stream of smoke, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips when he'd finished and she withered inside, even before he spoke, leaving her amazed as to how she managed to stay on her feet.
"Hello, Bols."
His voice was rough and deep but that familiar Northern twang washed over her gently and any lingering doubts that this wasn't him vanished at the knowing twinkle in his eyes, at the use of that name. And there it was, low in her belly, an ache that was both dull and sharp; unsettling yet, at the same time, sent gentle waves of pleasure to her chest thus dismissing that old adage of 'you only want what you can't have' as complete and utter nonsense because he was there and she still wanted him.
"Gene..." The name tumbled from her lips, familiar and warm, torn from the depths of her soul where it had lain unspoken and abandoned since she'd left him on that boat all those months ago. It felt right to voice it, to finally say his name out loud – it felt even better when he smiled in response, in confirmation, because it hadn't been the forename she'd been given, it wasn't the name he used in this world. She continued to stare at him, struggling with her emotions, and – now that she had accepted his existence, accepted that he was real – trying desperately to understand how this was even possible. He'd felt real, in that other world, but then so had everyone else.
He took one final hit, exhaling the last of the smoke as he stubbed out the cigarette on the arm of the bench, his eyes staring at her approvingly all the while. "Don't think I'll get used to you not dressing like a tart," he said evenly.
She smiled at his words, at his - apparently - easy acceptance of the situation, and forced herself forwards, slowly yet steadily, willing her legs not to disobey and give way beneath her. Taking the last few steps needed she sank down onto the bench next to him, grateful to have one less thing to worry about but her thoughts were still a jumbled mess, were still stuck on trying to explain how this had happened. Yet, at the same time, she couldn't stop staring at him; he was real and solid and absolute. And here, with her, exactly where she'd wanted him to be.
He returned her gaze steadily, strong and blue, his eyes roaming over her and, despite the coat and trouser suit underneath, she felt almost naked. With only inches separating them, she fought the growing urge to fling herself at him, to touch him, to hold him, to feel him; she wasn't sure she'd be able to let go if she did. Not this time. Not ever again. She let her hands slip from her body, coming to rest on the edge of the bench, the wood cold and gritty as she bore his scrutiny. His gaze came to rest briefly on the scar on her forehead - the one left by a bullet and the one she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide - a frown tugging at his lips before he met her gaze once more. The understanding was evident on his face but he said nothing, he didn't need to; just as they didn't need to discuss what had happened to them in 1981, not now anyway, but the truth, the agreement, was silently acknowledged between them. She'd been lucky to survive her experience but then so had he; she tried to recall how slim his chances must have been, given how long he'd been in a coma and his age, of even regaining consciousness – they must have been incredibly low, much like her own had been. Were two miracles allowed? A thought niggled at her, cold and unwanted, and as much as her heart didn't want to entertain the idea her head decided otherwise, gathering like a dark cloud on the horizon that threatened to ruin her day.
"Are we mad then, Bols?" he asked quietly into the silence, his eyes still locked on hers, waiting for an answer. An answer she didn't think she had. She doubted anyone would believe what had happened to them because it was all so implausible; in fact, everything that had happened to her since she'd got shot had been far fetched. To have awoken in a vaguely familiar 1981, to have solved the puzzle of her parents' deaths, to have met and interacted with constructs that someone else had invented yet now appeared to be as real as her... Her smile faded as the reason for her earlier hesitation made itself known, blowing that dark cloud ever closer towards her: was this, was any of this, possible?
"I... don't know," she said quietly, distracted by an awful thought and suddenly feeling very cold. What if this was all in her head? She'd spent the last four months trying to convince herself that that other world hadn't been real, that he wasn't real, but she'd never stopped to question the validity of the world she was now inhabiting. What if she hadn't actually woken up? 1981 had felt so real to her, in every possible way, yet it had all been imagined – could she really be so sure that this reality was 'real'? What if she was still lying on that shell of a boat, a bullet lodged in her head, and her life slowly ebbing away from her whilst she lived out what little remained of her life in the manner that she wanted it to, with the people that she wanted to be with? Had her mind merely manufactured her awakening, her return to Molly, and had everything that had happened since then just been a stepping stone towards this point, towards a valid and possible - if highly unlikely - happy ending?
There'd been a time when she'd felt that she'd never leave 1981 - from her very first day there she'd recognised that her chances of survival were slim to none; it had only been her stubbornness and her determination to get home to Molly that had prevented her from actually accepting such a fate. She'd kept on fighting, she'd held onto the thought of getting home to Molly and it had happened; once home she'd held on to the memory of Gene, had wished that he was with her and now here he was... She'd once told him that the mind was an amazing organ - was it more amazing than she'd previously thought?
His hand reached out for hers, gently loosening her clenched grip on the bench, drawing her hand away from the wood and into his. His thumb grazed the back of her hand and the gesture sent tingles up the length of her arm, the warmth spreading throughout her body, drawing her attention, and her eyes, back to him. How could the feelings he evoked in her be imagined? The only other option was to accept that there something more here, something she couldn't apply logic, or a psychological explanation, to. Something bigger and incomprehensible at work. His thumb repeated the action and she squeezed his hand in return, offering him a weak smile.
"Thought for sure that you'd have some psycho-babble to explain how you got into my little kingdom," he ventured, not sounding too disappointed by her lack of an answer and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he spoke. She decided right there and then not to care either. She wouldn't ask any more questions, wouldn't try and look for explanations. Maybe she was still slowly dying on that boat, maybe she was lying unconscious - never to wake - in a hospital bed or maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to have her miracle, she was allowed to have both Molly and Gene. And maybe reality was overrated anyway because this, whatever it was, felt real - it felt more than real.
"Excuse me," she protested loudly, still smiling at him and her fingers lacing with his as a weight lifted from her shoulders, and her head, as she threw herself into acceptance. "You were in my fantasy!"
"Been dreaming about me, have you Bolly?" he shot back, his grin wider but his eyes searching for an answer once again - and she knew that this reply meant more to him than her previous one.
"Never stopped," she admitted softly, thoughts of making those dreams come true invading her head and chasing off the last of her doubts. His smile relaxed into a more natural, contented, curve and she pictured a future with him, introducing him to Molly, taking him home, taking him into her life, taking him into her bed and she smiled wider at the thought.
