A few days earlier

The office was Gene's usual port of call at times like these. And indeed, it was the old faithful swivel chair upon which he now sat, chain smoking and swigging his favourite Scotch straight from the bottle. Gene surveyed his shoes, up on the desk. They were his best, Italian leather. Only ever got them out for weddings or funerals, and today had been the latter.

He had felt intensely awkward as he stood with the rest of CID, all in black, as the hearse rolled up to the church. Many a colleague had fallen in Gene's time, but he had never got over seeing the coffin for the first time. There was something about… Knowing. Knowing that your mate was in there, the bloke you were drinking with just the other week. Physically, he's so near to you, but really, in every other sense, he couldn't be further away.

A sobbing Harry had been led in by friends, and a sombre Archie had nodded briefly at Dan and Gene as they had entered, Gene craning his neck over the heads of the mourners all the time to try and catch some glimpse of Woodall's family. He wished to talk to them, to tell them how brave Woodall had been, how he had cracked jokes…

No family was found, however. As it turned out, according to Archie, Woodall and his parents had not been on speaking terms for years. In fact, that had been one of his reasons for moving down to London from his home in Birmingham. His mother and father had never accepted his sexuality.

"But…" Gene had stammered. "He's dead…surely they'd…?"

"Apparently not Mr. Hunt," Archie had replied, with a wry, yet sad smile. "They said they didn't want anything else to do with him. Not after he came out."

Gene had been rendered speechless. Of course he knew how easy it was to be un-accepting, but when their only son had died… Surely nobody could be that callous? It was then that the guilt hit him like a ton of bricks. Scott Woodall had spent his entire life going through hell because he fancied other blokes. First his parents had disowned him, so Scott had moved away from (or had been driven away) from his home, only to be greeted by a working environment in which he was belittled and shunned for the very same reason as he had before. Gene had ring-led all of that.

Everything Woodall did now made sense. Gene had never understood why he didn't retaliate or put up a fight. He had always worn that same hangdog, defeated expression. Now Gene realised: persecution and taunting was the norm for him. He had accepted it, long ago, as an immovable part of his life.

Suddenly, Gene felt like the lowest of the low, the mealiest amoeba. Sickened with himself, he had filed into the pew as the old organ swelled into life as the service began.

Gene took yet another measured swig from the whiskey bottle as he remembered Harry shuffling up towards the pulpit, trembling with emotion. He had shifted the single thin piece of paper between his fingers, before turning to the congregation and starting to speak, faltering to begin with, but voice gradually getting stronger as he read on.

"I'm…I'm sure that there are some perfect men. Well S-Scott wasn't one. In fact, sometimes, I'd have happily punched him in the face. He was the man who'd always leave his dirty socks under the bed. Scott was the bloke who'd hide the TV remote when I wanted to watch Countdown for no other reason than to annoy me… But Scott was also the man who'd always write 'I love you' on the blackboard in the kitchen. Scott was the man who'd bring me breakfast in bed every Sunday without fail. He could get boiled eggs just right as well. On my birthday Scott'd get me one big present and loads of little ones, and then he'd hide them around the house for me to find. Not grand gestures of love, but the little day to day things that really matter."

"What happened to Scott was…horrible. What he went through was…was…well it was worse than I can even imagine. I'm just glad that in his last moments that he was with friends. DCI Hunt and DI Hartley," at this point, Harry looked over to where Dan and Gene sat, the latter shrinking back into pew in shame. "You don't know what that would have meant to him. Thank you."

Then, Harry had turned to the mahogany coffin, placing a soft hand upon it.

"I'll miss you Scott. Sleep tight baby."

Presently, Gene took a deep dray from the cigarette, deep in thought. Yes, he had made his peace with Woodall himself, but not the issues his death had raised. Gene never liked to question himself, but at times like these it seemed necessary, if not vital, that he take a long hard look at who he was and what he stood for. He thought about Scott and Harry. Surely what they had was love, or as close to it as anyone gets, so why would he have had a problem with it? It wasn't hurting anyone.

If Bolly had taught him anything, then she had taught him love. He was sure that was what it was. He had pined for her, longed for her since they had been apart, and surely that wasn't because he hadn't got his quick shag on the backseat of the Quattro…no, it was something else. It was bloody love, it had to be bloody love. Gene Hunt was in love, still, after all this time. She had taught him that love endured, love sprung eternal, that love could do terrible things to people and that love was, most of all, beautiful.

So how could any love, whether it be between he and Alex, Scott and Harry, or anybody ever be wrong or unnatural? Surely it was the most natural thing in the world.

What had that woman done to him? He shook himself mentally, swinging his legs off the desk and placing them on the floor, where his foot began to tap, absently. The funeral had been hard, but facing his team back at CID was even harder. Silently, they sat down at their respective desks, faces turning, expectantly towards him, standing awkwardly before them. He had run a hand through his hair, as if to give himself time, before clearing his throat.

"Erm…Woods was a good bloke. And I know I weren't…great to him…but I know I'll miss 'im. I'll always remember him as the chirpy sod in the corner-" He gestured towards Woodall's poignantly empty desk, all eyes glanced towards it before snapping back to Gene, who faltered, still gazing at the place where Woodall had sat less than a week ago. Several moments passed before he continued: "Just…erm…well get on with it then…scum to catch."

The speech had been brief and unsatisfactory, and Gene knew it. He had retreated into his office, closing the blinds, avoiding Dan's disappointed gaze. It was there that Gene had spent the rest of the day, completely uninterrupted. It seemed even Dan had understood that Gene was not to be disturbed… Either that or he couldn't bear to look at him.

"I'm too old for this," muttered Gene, draining the last of the Scotch and throwing the bottle into the waste paper bin.

Dan started up at Keats, the man who had haunted his dreams since he had arrived in '88. Although, outwardly he seemed an average bloke, there was something in the way his glasses seemed to flash without light that caused an uncomfortable churning sensation to arise in the pit of Dan's stomach. It made his eyes unreadable. Dan had always been a great believer in the idea that the eyes were the window to the soul, and Jim Keats' eyes were hidden, masked. Something about him just didn't ring true.

"Work with you?" Dan said, slowly.

"Yeah. I've seen how you work Dan. You'll go far if you learn to make the right choices."

"Oh yeah?" Dan raised an eyebrow, his suspicions aroused. "And what might that choice be?"

"All in good time Dan," Keats smiled, which, to an outsider would have made him look pleasant, but in Dan's- rather unusual- case, the smile sent chills up his spine, right to the point where Malone's corkscrew had entered his brain. The spot throbbed suddenly, and Dan had to fight not to cry out. He repressed the urge, however, and was glad of it; he did not want to display any sort of weakness to this strange, unnerving man.

Keats whipped off his glasses, and began to polish them on his trench coat. Dan took this small, yet adequate opportunity to surreptitiously study Keats' eyes. He almost immediately wished he hadn't. What he saw in those eyes caused goose bumps to erupt all over his skin. Those eyes were unfathomable, supernaturally hypnotic, but most of all, they were dark. Not dark in colour, but carried within them a darkness which chilled Dan to the bone.

"It's a shame about that bloke in your department. Woodall, was it?" Dan murmured his ascent. "Can't say I ever met him, but I'd heard good things about him. Was he a mate of yours Dan?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, it's always tough." With those words, Keats placed a hand on Dan's shoulder, creating an unnatural frisson in the air around them. Dan stiffened, muscles tensing with a mixture of fear and revulsion. After what seemed like hours to Dan, but what was, in reality, only a few seconds, Keats removed his hand. Though the momentary contact with Keats had gone, the spot where his hand had lain remained uncomfortably hot. Keats continued.

"It was a shame. I heard he had a boyfriend?" Dan nodded. "Young lads like that. Had their whole lives ahead of them…so he was gay? Bet it was a barrel of fun for him then, working for Hunt and all?"
"Not exactly," Dan muttered, unwilling to divulge any more than necessary to this man; this man who seemed to suck all the air from wherever he stood. The man with the dark eyes.

"Hunt's never been that accepting. Bet he didn't even give a shit when he died." said Keats.

For the most fleeting of moments, Dan's mind flashed mutinously to Gene's less than impassioned speech at the office, before settling upon Gene holding Woodall in his embrace as he died, talking to him, laughing with him, making the man's final moments bearable. Dan could not see Hunt's face from where he had been standing, but could have sworn he saw a tear fall through the air onto Woodall's face. Dan decided not to answer Keats, he was oddly and instinctively mistrusting of him. Maybe it was because he was the menacing figure who had appeared continually in the corner of his eye over the last week or two, maybe it was his eyes… Maybe it was because Dan's gut told him not to trust as it tied itself repeatedly into knots.

In Keats' eyes, Dan saw the exact opposite of everything that Gene Hunt was. At that particular moment in time, his brain and heart battled to whether that was a good or a bad thing.

"We should talk, you and me Dan. How about a bite to eat? There's a great café just up the road. Can I tempt you?"

Dan had not eaten for over twenty four hours. Since Woodall's death, he had only been able to pick at his food, and couldn't even bring himself to do that earlier. His stomach gave a pang at the prospect of food, but his gut over-ruled it. Something told him not to accept anything from this man. The phrase 'Dining with the Devil' inexplicably sprang to mind.

"No… No thanks, Keats," said Dan, shaking his head, for the first time looking Keats square in the face, subtly challenging him by not addressing him as an inferior would a superior officer, but as equals. Enemies.

And with that, Dan turned on his heel and marched of in the direction of his flat, his face set, not betraying the stab of fear that coursed through him as Keats' voice carried on the wind:

"Don't play hard to get Dan. I always win."