Chapter 1

He couldn't get used to this skin; this rotting, decrepit body that he'd woken up within. His situation was a bizarre twist of fate but it most certainly had its downsides. No wonder the body seemed such a wreck. He remembered Arthur Layton. He remembered him as the desperate, drug-addled man who had sought his help providing the details he needed to pursue various lines of blackmail. He'd been in a state back then. Physically he seemed several times worse off than that now.

He could see a pile of stinking, retched clothes folded and laid on a chair in the corner. Was that all he had? Were those the clothes he would be forced to wear to leave this hospital? Oh well, it would be a small price to pay for the chance to run free in the real world with no one to stop him from carrying out the acts that had been playing eagerly through his mind all day.

A nurse appeared with a couple of gentlemen hanging back a little behind her.

"Arthur, are you feeling up to a few questions?" she asked.

Keats shuffled upright a little more. He was finding it difficult to control these strange, unwieldy limbs. Clearing this throat, he nodded.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said.

"Good," said the nurse as she stepped to one side. Two rather large, rather foreboding figures approached. "These two gentlemen are here to talk to you about how you ended up here and the events that led up to your accident, alright?" She gave him a friendly smile before leaving the room.

The two detectives loomed large.

"Mister Layton," one of them began, "My name is DS Fullerton," he showed Keats some ID, "and this is DI March. We would like to as you a few questions."

Keats leaned back and took a moment to reply.

"Go ahead," he said eventually.

"How good is your memory of your accident?" Fullerton asked.

Keats put on a wounded expression.

"Oh my, it's all such a blur," he said, "Can't remember a thing."

"Do you recall the use of a firearm in the moments leading up to your accident?" asked DI March.

Again, a faux-innocence fell upon his features.

"Sorry, sir, I can't remember a thing. The old memory's not what it used to be."

"Hmm. I'm sure that will have something to do with the drugs you put in your system before taking to the roof," DS Fullerton said.

Keats opened his mouth to reply but – wham – suddenly something came back to him. A roof… there was a roof… certainly not a roof in 2011 though.

Top of Fenchurch West… there was Alex… Gene… Simon… Kim…

He shook his head to get rid of the images that were coming back to him and tried to get his mind back into gear.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember anything about a roof."

"You don't remember much, do you?" asked Fullerton.

"Must have knocked a few brain cells loose," Keats smiled, but the look on the faces of the two detectives soon called a halt to that.

"Hmm," said March, "we'll see, won't we?" he glanced at Fullerton. "Let's leave Mister Layton to catch up on some sleep. See if that jogs any memories." He nodded to Keats. "We shall be back, sir. Never you fear. We'll be back."

"Don't doubt that," Keats called out after them with a charming smile. As they vanished and spoke to the guards on the door his smile faded and turned into a glower. He couldn't help them even if he wanted to. He was just a lodger here. Layton's body was just a stop-gap while he put to rights a few pieces of unfinished business.

He watched the clock on the wall. The beautiful ticking that told him he was alive. He closed his eyes and leaned back to once again allow sleep to take control and to build up the energy that he would surely need for the days ahead.

~xXx~

"I've got a favour to ask you, Robin."

Robin stirred his coffee and looked at Kim. He'd been surprised to get the call asking to meet up after just seeing her the night before.

"If it involves recording the repeat of Evan's edition of Dispatches then hard luck, no can do," he said.

"No, this is something serious," said Kim. She saw Robin looking anxious. "It's nothing bad," she said quickly, "at least, I don't think so." She paused and looked at her mug, this was awkward. She bit her lip and drew in a deep breath. "Linda and me… we've been talking about having another baby."

"And you want to call it Robin?"

Kim pulled a face.

"Pfft, no thanks."

"Hey! What's wrong with my name?"

Kim shook her head,

"That's beside the point," she said, "Robin, our previous donor is no longer in the area and he'd not interested in helping us a third time. So –"

She fell silent hoping that she wouldn't need to finish that sentence. Robin stared at her, awaiting some further explanation. When none came he realised he'd better figure out what she was talking about himself. At first he thought she was going to ask him to track the guy down but her expression suggested it was more than that and suddenly it dawned on him what she meant.

"Me?" he asked, a little incredulously, "you want me to," he felt himself flush, "donate?"

"There's no one else we'd ask," said Kim.

Robin stared at her. His mind had gone blank. Completely, totally and utterly blank.

"That's a big ask, Kim," he said, shaking his head a little.

"I know," Kim said quickly, "take your time thinking it through, don't rush – take all the time you need."

Robin couldn't quite process the question.

"So…" he cleared his throat. This was the type of discussion that made him feel, in the words of an eight year old, 'icky'. "Would we have to…" he pulled a face, "you know."

"No, no, nothing like that," Kim laughed a bit at the thought, "we went through a lab before. This time we can't afford it, it would be home insemination."

Robin cringed. This wasn't language he wanted to hear.

"So how do I…" he couldn't believe he was saying this, "leave my contribution?"

"You'll do it in a pot."

Robin almost choked on the coffee he wasn't drinking any more and had been turned off of for life.

"I can't do that!" he cried, "What if I…" he swallowed hard and rotated between blushing and turning a deathly pale, "mis-aim?"

"You can do it at a clinic if that makes you feel better?" Kim suggested.

Robin shuddered.

"In what weird, alternative reality would that make me feel better?" he cried.

"Rob, you don't have to do this," Kim reminded him, "there's no pressure at all."

Robin chewed nervously on his lip.

"What… what kind of an arrangement would this be?" he asked.

"We just want your DNA, nothing more," said Kim.

"Great, now I'm a science experiment!"

Kim sighed.

"The baby would be brought up by me and Linda. You don't have to do a thing. The child never even has to know. You can just be fun Uncle Robin who turns up every time the X Files is repeated and arrives with pizza once a week."

Robin tried to think it through but the whole concept was too big.

"I… I just don't know, Kim" he said, "I'm not saying no, I just…" he sighed and shook his head a little. "I need to think about this. Really think about it."

"Of course," said Kim. She held up her palms. "Wouldn't have expected anything less."

Robin started re-stirring his coffee with vigour, Anything to take the emphasis away from the thought of giving Kim a batch of little swimming micro-Robins in a cup. He waited until a reasonable length of time had passed before speaking again so that the change of subject didn't seem too obtuse.

"You know what I heard at work today?" he asked.

Kim sipped her coffee and looked at him.

"The sound of dogs barking?" she teased.

Robin pulled a face.

"Thank you for your contribution of comedy," he said. His face grew serious. "Layton woke up today."

Kim's face dropped. It didn't seem so funny now.

"He's conscious?" She whispered as Robin nodded. "I thought they couldn't find enough brain activity?"

"Maybe that's just Layton normally?" joked Robin, but his heart wasn't in the gag. He looked at Kim, a little sadly. "Kind of brings it back. Doesn't it?"

Kim nodded slowly.

"Certainly does," she said quietly.

"They've spoken to him to see how his memory is doing," Robin told her, "looks like he's playing some games."

"Doesn't surprise me," Kim shuddered. Her hand rose involuntarily to the gunshot wound on her neck. It was starting to heal fairly well but she knew she was left with that reminder for life, an echo from her time in Gene's world. A mark she'd left behind.

"There's no way of knowing yet what kind of condition he's in mentally or physically," Robin told her, "but they'll be transferring him to the prison hospital as soon as they have the go ahead. They're not taking any chances with that one."

"Good," said Kim. His manic face still haunted her in her nightmares, the frantic expression as he stood on the roof, the look in his eyes as he fired a bullet that wasn't even meant for her. "Robin?"

"Hmm?"

Kim swallowed. She felt a little nervous suddenly, "how-how did that bullet miss you?"

Robin felt as though he'd taken a punch to the guts from that question. He looked down at his coffee. He wasn't making much progress drinking that, was he? He let out his breath and shook his head slowly. He felt himself shaking just a little.

"I ask myself that every single night, Kim," he whispered, "and I never come any closer to finding an answer."

As she watched his anxious expression Kim realised it was perhaps not a question she should have asked. Robin's skin seemed awfully pale suddenly. She reached out and laid her hand over his, telling him in that touch that it was OK, he didn't have to answer or think about it any longer.

"One of those things, Rob," she said quietly, "it happened. Now let's forget it."

Robin nodded slowly.

"Yeah," he whispered, "let's. Please."

Kim smiled thinly but knew that the answer to her question was one that they may never figure out and from the expression on Robin's face he may not even want to. For now all she could do was to turn her attention back to her coffee and try not to think about the impossible bullet she'd taken.

~xXx~

Keats awoke from a dreamless sleep to hear voices outside of the hospital room. Having natural, human sleep was certainly a strange and unfamiliar thing for him to experience. It had been a very long time since he'd taken a night's sleep in a real bed, closed his eyes and drifted away. However, this particular sleep had been disturbed by 'visitors' lurking in the corridor and he wasn't sure he liked that. He frowned and pulled himself up a little in bed. He could feel his limbs growing stronger now. They might have been scrawny and left much to be desired aesthetically but his arms and legs were gaining motility and strength with every moment that passed.

He craned his neck to one side and tried to catch a little of the conversation happening outside of the door. He could hear two voices, one slightly louder than the other. The softer voice said something along the lines of stabilising and good recovery, then out of ICU in the next twenty four hours.

Good, thought Keats, that's got to be good. I'm getting stronger, Well, good old Arthur here is, anyway.

In the next moment his hope was taken away from in in a heartbeat.

"Brilliant news, we'll transfer him to the prison hospital tomorrow."

Instantly Keats's heart began to thump at such a volume he thought it could be heard from outside the room. He gasped and held his crusty hands to his mouth. No – this is not part of the plan! Going to the prison hospital was the worst thing that could happen. He needed to be out and free. He would stand no chance of getting out into the world from the other side of the fence. How could they justify locking him away anyway? They hadn't even charged him yet!

This is not an option; his mind screamed to him over and over, prison hospital is not an option.

It might not have been an option but with less than 24 hours to think of an alternative in a crumbling, crusty body it seemed his plans were doomed for failure before they had even begun.