I'm so sorry for the long gap in updating - blame real life - I hope the next chapter won't be so long in coming. Thank you for sticking with this story. Thank you also to everyone who's reviewed and favourited the last chapter, I'm sorry for not replying, but see the earlier comment about real life :)

o O o

Standing at the bar, waiting for Luigi to return from the kitchen with spag bol and tiramisu for two, Gene Hunt wiped a hand across his face, wondering afresh about the events of the past few hours.

This morning, as every morning since the shooting, he'd woken with a leaden sense of guilt bearing down on his insides, eating away at him, unresponsive to the usual cures of alcohol and work. Then he'd been given the news that he was in the clear over the shooting and he'd found out from Shaz that Chris was due to collect Alex from hospital and bring her home. His relief about his own future was dwarfed by the elation he'd felt about Alex's recovery, the fact that she was going to be fine, that he hadn't inflicted any permanent damage. Feeling lighter and taller than he had in days, he'd sent Chris off on a meaningless errand and hijacked his role as Alex's chauffeur, at once desperate to see her again and terrified of her reaction.

Stuffing his change in his pocket, he closed his eyes and pictured again Alex's face as she brushed her lips against his, relived the feel of her arms around his body, her hands on his skin. He'd wanted her for so long, dreamed of wrapping her compliant body around him, but the reality blew his fantasies out of the water and his hands were still trembling with the impact. Her calling a halt to their antics, although frustrating, was probably for the best – he needed a moment to collect himself, to make sense of what had happened.

She'd lied to him. Certainly about being from the future, but what about everything else? About being threatened by Johnson, about disposing of Summers' body? He wanted to believe her crazy story, ached to, knew he couldn't let her close unless there was trust between them. So as he drummed his fingers on the bar, muttering curses in Luigi's direction about how long it could possibly take to rustle up a couple of plates of pasta, his subconscious took the only option open to him: believe what she said, take it all at face value, and try to expunge his guilt over the shooting by not examining her story in any detail at all.

Luigi bustled into sight, a carrier bag in hand and a concerned expression on his face. "Mr Hunt. I am glad you are here to look after the Signorina. We were very worried when we heard what had happened. Didn't like to think of her alone in the flat."

Frowning, Gene took hold of the bag and nodded for Luigi to pour another measure into his tumbler. Downing it quickly, he slid off the stool and prepared to return upstairs. "She'll be fine," he muttered. "She won't be alone."

In the flat, Alex was also taking the opportunity to gather her thoughts. What the hell was she doing? She'd done what she had to do, what she'd come back to do. She'd given evidence that got Gene off the hook about the shooting, and she thought she'd persuaded him that she'd had no choice but to lie to him when he'd asked for her confidence. So shouldn't she be focusing on getting back again? Getting back to Molly?

Thinking about her daughter, Alex felt the dull ache of guilt in her stomach once more. Would she ever be free of it? Able to live a normal life in 1982 while waiting for whatever trigger she needed to get her back home again? Shaking her head, she feared it wouldn't be so easy. Molly would always be around every corner, calling on her to keep fighting, to keep looking for that elusive pathway home. And if she allowed Gene into her life, she surely wouldn't be focusing enough on her daughter.

If? She laughed dryly. Rather too late for if – the deed was already done. Closing her eyes, she recalled the feel of his lips as they brushed against hers, the smell of his skin, the sound of his muttered endearments. Her body prickled in frustration; she could no longer deny his affect on her, and her physical desires were engaged in battle with her emotional need for her child.

She put a tentative hand to her side, over the bandages that protected the stitches holding her bullet wound together. She'd been told how to change her own dressing but she wasn't due to have the stitches removed for another few days. A wry smile spilt her face. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed that she had this enforced cooling off period.

Her reflection was broken by the sound of familiar footsteps making their way up the stairs and then the click of a key in her lock. She smiled as Gene appeared in the hallway, nodding a hello at her before heading straight to the kitchen to unload the supper. She wandered over to join him, putting a hand at his elbow as she examined the plates. He sent her a glance. "Wasn't sure what you'd feel like. Went for the old faithful."

"Spaghetti will be lovely," she said brightly. "Just what the doctor ordered. Thank you." God, she sounded like Stepford wife. Get a grip, Alex.

"Great," he replied. "Sit down, I'll bring it over." He reached across for the pepper grinder, bumping into Alex as she leant for her wine glass. "Sorry," he muttered, jerking away.

"S'okay," she mumbled, feeling blindly for the glass before retreating quickly to the small table. She took a deep breath then pasted a confident smile on her face as he took the seat opposite her. The healthy gulp of red would need to work quickly if it was going to help disguise the awkwardness she felt.

They ate the pasta quietly, and as the silence grew lengthy, Alex struck up an absurd conversation about the weather. Gene grabbed it as though it were a lifeline. It was ridiculous, really, he knew. Okay, he had a couple of years on her but neither of them were exactly spring chickens, they'd both been around the block a few times. Both been married, for God's sake. Yet one snatched kiss seemed to have sent them both back to the fumbling anxieties of adolescence and he wanted to give himself a shake.

It was the tiramisu that broke the tension. Gene grumbled about the indignity of eating a birds' pudding while Alex teased him about having a soft spot for Luigi's home cooking. He wasn't sure if it was the wine or the company but he felt by the end of the meal that things were improving. They weren't yet where they'd been before – when they'd stood together in the face of Chris's betrayal, before he'd shot her, before she'd lied to him, before they'd let each other down so badly – but they were on the way. And as she giggled at the sight of him spooning a mound of the wobbling desert into his mouth, he felt able to relax into his chair and smile back.

His calm mood didn't last for long though, as he watched Alex lick away a spot of cream from the corner of her mouth. He shifted slightly, looking away. Would she always have this power over him? He didn't resent it exactly, but…

He got up from the table and began clearing away. Dishes clinked in the sink as he ran the tap, ignoring Alex's protests. "You've only just got out of hospital," he grumbled. "I'm perfectly capable of washing up a few plates."

"Well, okay. If you're sure." She carried her wine glass across to the sofa and sat so she could watch him bustling around in the kitchen, a tea towel flung over his shoulder as he washed and dried crockery, opening drawers and cupboards to put things away.

She liked having him in her kitchen. It felt right somehow. The trauma of the past few weeks shouldn't be swept away so easily by a scene of cosy domesticity, yet she felt completely at peace, both with herself and with him. She wouldn't forget Molly – would wake up tomorrow and Molly would still be the first thing on her mind – but why should that preclude her from living a real life in this world? And who knew? Perhaps she was somehow meant to deepen her relationship with Gene, follow her instincts and let him in. Perhaps this thing between them had been the key to getting home all along. For tonight, though, it didn't matter either way. She lay her head on the arm of the sofa and tucked up her legs, listening as he hummed tunelessly in the other room.

In the kitchen, Gene busied himself with tidying up, wiping down surfaces and cleaning the sink, playing for time. Eventually there was nothing more to keep him – the kitchen was cleaner than he could remember seeing it – so he poured himself the last of the wine and took a deep breath.

He wanted her. He supposed he'd always wanted her, even when he'd done his best to convince both himself and her that he was happy with her friendship, her professional respect. And now, just when she should be at her most angry with him, when by rights she should be ranting and screaming about his misjudgement and his singularly poor aim, it seemed she might want him too. His head swam at the thought.

So much could go wrong. Whatever was between them felt fragile, brittle, like it would shatter under too much pressure. He didn't want to scare her away before he'd had the chance to get close, but he was afraid that if they got entangled he wouldn't be able to keep a lid on the emotions he'd been smothering since they met.

Picking up the wine glass, he squared his shoulders and strode across to join Alex on the sofa. A wry smile crinkled his eyes as he looked down at her sleeping form. She was lying with one arm hanging off the edge of the sofa, a wine glass dangling precariously from her fingers. He eased the glass from her hand and set it on the coffee table next to his.

He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie. Lifting her feet, careful not to disturb her, he took a seat on the sofa and laid her legs across his lap. She snuffled slightly and smiled before settling back into sleep. Turning his head, he stared at her profile, at the elegant curve of her neck, the softly parted lips. He'd never stood a chance. Every time he thought he'd become accustomed to her beauty she'd throw him a look, a smile, and he'd be floored again. He suspected she knew but it would never stand up in court.

His gut tightened at the realisation of how close he'd come to losing her. A heart-stopping moment, an instinctive reaction, too much pressure on the trigger and it'd nearly been the end. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It was an accident, a stupid, stupid mistake." He rested his hand on her knee, tracing absent circles with his thumb. "I know you know I didn't mean it, but do you know how sorry I am? If I could change what happened, if I could swap places…" He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'm sorry. Just so you know."

He leant towards her, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, trailing his finger along her cheek before pulling away. She looked peaceful, none of the nervous energy she normally wore like a prickly overcoat. He picked up her hand, long fingers tipped by blunt, mannish nails. He brushed his lips across her knuckle before resting their hands at her hip, their fingers still entwined.

Resting his head against the back of the sofa, he felt her lethargy seep into him. He hadn't slept properly for days, had been operating on adrenalin and desperation, but now his weariness was catching up with him and his eyes flickered closed.

By the time he woke again the flat was quiet, the sounds of the city receding as people found their homes and their beds. Sneaking a glance at his watch he saw that it was late, that he should be making a move. Rousing himself as carefully as he could, he slipped out from beneath Alex's legs and went in search of a blanket. He found one tucked beneath a side table and flipped it open, draping it across Alex's body, smoothing it along the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, kneeling before her as he rested his hand at the crook of her knee.

He took a moment before nudging gently at her shoulder. "Alex. Bolls. Wake up, sweetheart." She scrunched up her eyes and turned her face away. He shook her again. "Bolly, come on. It's late, love."

She flicked at his hand, mumbling as she twisted towards wakefulness, finally opening her eyes and smiling lazily into his. She looked soft, fuzzy, and it was all he could do not to smother her on the sofa, cover her body with his and –

He smiled, rueful. "It's late, Bolls. Time I was off."

A frown creased her brow. "No," she whispered. "Stay. Not sleepy. Awake now."

"You're exhausted." He cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. "You need your sleep. Are you going to stay here or would you like me to help you to, er…" He coughed.

She curved her head into his hand but her eyes were pleading. "Don't go. Don't want to be alone. Stay with me."

He sighed, defeated. "Come on, then." Taking her hands, he pulled her upright and helped her to her feet, catching the blanket as she rose. "You get yourself off. I'll be right here."

She looked at her feet. "Oh."

"You okay?" Putting a hand to her chin, he lifted her face towards his. "What's wrong?"

"Just. Well." She shrugged slightly. "Come with me?"

She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, slipping out of her boots and under the covers, still almost fully clothed. Reaching out to him, he paused for only a moment before pulling off his tie, emptying his pockets and sliding alongside her. She sent him a sleepy smile before turning on her side, her back to him, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, dropped a kiss in her hair and watched her sleep.