He was left on his own for the rest of the day after Anne left, on Dr Simmonds' orders. So there was nobody to tell him to get out of his wet clothes, get under the covers to warm himself up, and nobody there to tell him not to go back out on the balcony as the rain got heavier and the day turned to a surprisingly cool night.

Gene didn't really mind being cold. He sat there until he was frozen to the bone, and felt that little bit closer to death, and that precious inch closer to Alex.

And out here, sitting on the icy balcony, shivering uncontrollably as he watched the cars go by down below, he could let his eyes flick up to the stars every so often and imagine her staring at the same sky, tracing the same constellations, maybe even trudging through the same rain that now soaked his pyjamas through, chilling his skin even further. He knew he should go back into his room, should go and get into a warm shower and ask someone to help him heat up, but the cold was drugging his brain, and every time he tried to move he fell over. His body didn't seem to want to do what he told it to, and so he gave up and closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the railing behind it. Maybe when I wake up, I'll be with Bolly again.

It took him a while to realise that he could barely feel the cold, hardly registered his body shivering or the ache in his back from sitting so hunched over. He could barely feel anything, not from his body, not from this wilderness masquerading as a life; his heart and soul were elsewhere, just like Nelson used to sigh about when Sam was around. What was it he'd said? "When you can feel, you're alive." In that case, Gene was dead.

Maybe if he explained it to someone, to his mam, they'd understand.

So. Get up. Easy does it…

She was left on her own for most of the day now. Ray had told the rest of the team, in hushed tones, about the scene in the kitchenette, and now the entire department seemed to be avoiding her like the plague; the only exception, Shaz, was now distant and distracted, the warmth of her personality damped down so that Alex felt like she was permanently cold, her flesh unwarmed by Gene's gentle, passionate touch.

Luigi's no longer felt like home, and she no longer ate or drank there; her routine was to pick up some wine from her friendly landlord and head upstairs with it, perhaps a pizza or some pasta to go with it, and drink a single glass as slowly as she could, sipping so that she could just taste the sour tang on the tip of her tongue, just feel its coolness sliding down the top of her throat.

She didn't want to get drunk. Gene never appeared when she was drunk.

She lived for the rare occasions when she would hear his voice from the radio on the kitchen worktop, or glimpse his brilliant eyes on the television, or- most rare of all- simply see him, in front of her, talking with a stranger or with a little boy she assumed to be Max. Sometimes he would be silent, gazing into the distance, and her whole body would tingle with love for him, certain he was thinking of her.

Today, she felt especially cold. She was physically shivering as she collected a new bottle of wine and headed upstairs, wrapping her sleeved poncho tighter round herself until she was safely back in the warm. Electing not to take it off, she flopped onto the sofa with her boots still on, discarding the wine bottle on the floor beside her, closing her eyes and leaning back into the cushions. God, it was all so exhausting. Everything was exhausting. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, and kept them closed, she'd be back with her little girl, back with Gene…

"We'll have to keep a closer eye on him."

Her eyes shot open.

Nobody was there, no ghostly figure from the world she longed to return to. Heart booming in her ears, she craned her neck to see if the radio had come on, but it stood grim and silent on the kitchen worktop, oblivious to her pleading gaze.

"He became very cold. We'll have to lock the door to the balcony."

"He'd only pick the lock."

"Police officers are always the worst patients. Come on, Gene, hang on in there. Don't you dare go back into a coma. Stay with us."

"Gene?" Alex whispered, slowly moving forwards, her eyes hungrily roving the lounge for any sign of him, grabbing at the surfaces around her as though the wood and brick would morph into warm flesh at her touch.

She didn't turn as the kitchen began to glow. Hardly daring to believe it was real.

And then, unable to stop herself, she leapt round, a cry torn from her lips at the sight before her.

Gene was so still, so pale, hooked up to machines and drips, barely breathing. His scruffy blond hair was damp above a thick bandage, his lips tinged with blue; as she watched, a doctor placed an oxygen mask carefully over his face, taking a towel to dry his fringe.

He was in the middle of her kitchen, so close to her she could reach out and touch him.

"Gene…" she whispered, reaching out and then stopping, her fingers curling into themselves. If she touched him, he might disappear. She couldn't lose him. Not again.

"Heart rate decreasing. We could be losing him."

"Get Dr Simmonds in here, and a trauma team. Stupid man! What did you think you were doing?"

Someone reached over, shaking Gene's shoulder as hard as they dared. He moaned lightly, turning his head away, so weak it made Alex's heart clench.

"Never mind assigning the blame, he needs to warm up and fast. Where's Dr Simmonds?"

"He's coming. Gene, can you hear me? Gene?"

"DON'T LOSE HIM! DON'T LOSE MY BOY!"

And then he was gone. Gone just as he'd appeared, gone just as he'd vanished, so abruptly Alex had to blink to adjust to the sudden gloom.

"Gene… oh, Gene…"

Ray Carling hadn't had one of his better nights.

The blonde bird he'd tried his luck with had turned out to be happily married, to a man several stone heavier than Ray, and less than an inch away from him. After Chris and Shaz had dragged him onto the street to avoid a fight breaking out, he'd decided to head home on his tod, taking his usual route down the alleyway behind the opposite corner shop only to step in a massive puddle of fresh vomit, courtesy of the extremely drunk man dressed in a gold skin-tight dress and sheer tights who promptly tried to kiss him.

After a brief scuffle, the man gave up and vomited on Ray as well. That had earnt him a night in the cells and a considerably lighter wallet, to pay for the dry cleaning.

When he'd finally arrived home, stinking and dog-tired, Ray had treated himself to a long bath, immersing himself in soap suds and scrubbing his back to A Hard Day's Night on the radio. Wondering idly if the Beatles had had him in mind when they'd written it, he reluctantly emerged from the tub, choosing his bed over resembling the prunes Shaz brought in for her lunch.

Wrapping himself in the towel pre-warmed on the radiator, Ray headed through to the lounge to find his pyjamas, with a vague recollection of having washed them sometime this week. Doubtless they'd be in the big pile all his other clothes were in, ready for ironing. Not that he ironed them, of course.

Whistling to himself, Ray began to delve into the pile, casting clothing into the four corners of the room in his search.

A faint noise behind him made him jump, swerve round. Bloody kids downstairs, makin' noises at all times o' the day an' night, no care fer 'onest law-abidin' people 'oo want a bit o'… kip…

His eyes widened to painful proportions as he choked on a breath in, falling sideways into the heap of clothing.

Gene Hunt, a very confused and pale Gene Hunt, was standing in his lounge, staring at him with wary eyes, one hand reaching out to grab at the back of the sofa, as though to ascertain if it were real or not.

"G- Guv?"

Gene jumped, held the sofa tighter, so tightly his knuckles shone bone-white. The overly-bright light illuminated his pale skin, his dampened hair, showed off the reality of him, surely too real to be imagined.

"Ray?"

The word had barely left his lips before he vanished, the sofa cushion slowly reflating in the shocked silence he left behind him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Ray's heart banging wildly in his chest.

And then, yelling loud enough to wake the dead, he launched himself across the room, staring down at the imprint on his sofa, four fingers and the tip of a thumb, the Guv's hand, Gene's bloody hand-

I must be goin' mad.

It took Ray a long time to gather his wits enough to move through to the bedroom.

"Gene became severely hypothermic, Mrs Hunt. He needs to warm up. Taking his arm out from under the blankets won't help."

"But I want ter 'old 'is 'and! 'E's my son!"

Gene just heard the argument through an ugly haze of semi-consciousness, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and sleep; he could tell he was cold, could feel himself shivering gently, could tell that his mam was there and on the warpath. He could open his eyes, could show everyone he was awake, but oh God, he just wanted to sleep again, just wanted to close his eyes and be back there, back in the place he'd just left, a world where he could feel, had felt the rough sofa under his fingertips and smelt the stale curry in Ray's flat-

His eyes crashed open.

Ray's flat?

He struggled upright, scrabbling around the bed, unprepared for the doctors who promptly descended on him and forced him back under the covers again, someone shoving a thermometer in his ear as someone else attached something to his index finger, everyone talking at once, his Mam screaming for them to let her see him. Gene blinked woozily, just about managing to focus on someone's face, trying to make his lips co-operate to tell them that a marching band had decided to start playing in his head. Very bloody loudly.

"Welcome back," someone told him quietly, hooking up a drip to the cannula in his hand; the pain drained away. "You fell on your balcony and knocked yourself out, I'm sure you can feel how cold you became. We'll let your mother in, but the moment you fall asleep again she has to leave, OK?"

"Mhm," Gene managed, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. He considered sitting up as his mother was ushered to his bedside, but his limbs were too heavy and he was just too comfortable where he was and so he only reached out a careful hand towards her, watching as Mrs Hunt dried her face on her sleeve and clutched his fingers, sitting on the edge of the chair beside his bed.

"Yer gave us such a scare," she whispered, resting her palm on his forehead. Gene managed half a smile, trying not to fall asleep too quickly.

"I'll be OK?"

"Of course. Don't worry, my love. Don't worry."

God, he was so sleepy. Maybe if he went back to sleep, he'd be back there again.

"Gene?"

No, the real world was demanding his attention again like an impatient toddler. Gene opened his eyes again, watching his mother silently as she struggled with her words, clutching his hand like a lifebelt.

"Mam?"

"The doctors said… said yer didn't remember our argument. See, I don't think it's fair ter keep yer in the dark over it. An' nor does Stu."

"Stu? What?"

Gene sat bolt upright, grabbing at his mother's hand; Dr Simmonds made a small noise of protest, but neither patient nor visitor paid him any attention.

"Stu. Yer brother, yer daft thing! The lad yer grew up with? Honestly!"

"But…"

"But?"

Gene shook his head. In his… in the other world, Stu had died a drug addict, Gene only able to watch helplessly as his brother destroyed himself and a little bit of Gene, a very precious and utterly irreplaceable bit, along with him.

"Doesn't matter."

"Did somethin' different 'appen in yer dream?"

"Wasn't a dream… 'e was dead there. Died of a drug overdose."

"Your imagination, Eugene Hunt! Stu'd never go near drugs, not after what 'appened when 'e was younger. Don't yer remember Doug Fisher? Stu was dabblin' in 'em, an' then Doug died of an overdose. Shocked Stu inter leavin' 'em alone. Never been near 'em since."

Stu's still alive! If he hadn't been so sore, Gene was sure he would've been dancing round the hospital room. Thank goodness he was ill, save everyone else the spectacle.

"Um… if yer say so."

"I do. 'E would be 'ere, but 'e decided ter wait until yer'd got all yer wits about yer. Looks like that'll be a while."

Gene's hackles went up. Yeah, it will be. It'll be until Bolly wakes up.

"The argument." He didn't want them sidetracked any more, he wanted this out in the open now. He never argued with his mother; the years they'd spent defending each other at the hands of Gene's father had forged a much closer relationship than just mother and son.

"Yes. Yer scars."

"Eh?"

Mrs Hunt reached out and touched a scar on Gene's neck, tracing along it until her fingers found another, snaking up to Gene's cheek. Then she tilted his head to one side and ran her fingers over a scar on his cheekbone, another on his temple.

"D'yer remember? Yer got all of 'em in one sittin'. Spent a week in 'ospital afterwards. I wanted ter get rid o' the memories, but you said yer didn't care, yer'd got worse scars from bein' in the Force. I… I didn't want ter see what 'e did ter yer every time I saw yer face."

Her fingers now caressed his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the scars, as though her touch would heal them. Gene watched silently.

"I offered ter pay fer surgery, get rid of 'em. You said no, said yer couldn't take time off work, 'ated 'ospitals, didn't care about it. Said it wasn't worth the pain or time. An' then I said somethin' stupid. Said maybe it was why yer weren't married now, like Stu, because yer scared 'em off. I never meant it. I'm sorry."

"I did 'ave a bird. Alex."

"Yer never said."

"She wasn't exactly my bird then." He could sort out the logistics later. More important that he make peace with his mam first.

"You got angry- understandably. Said I should stop interferin', let yer live yer life. That yer were only thirty-six, there was time ter find someone else, I should keep my nose out. An' then I said 'ow proud I was of Stu, fer really makin' somethin' of 'is life an' bein' such a lovely 'usband… an' 'is kids. I was so stupid…"

Mrs Hunt wiped a tear from her cheek, loosening her hold on Gene's hand, seeing if he would snatch it away; he didn't, and she carried on, her voice wobbling as her fingers tightened once again on his.

"I understand yer gettin' so angry. I said some silly things, I just didn't want yer ter end up lost an' alone, without someone ter support yer, especially after yer left Manchester."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I was wrong, I was just so worried about yer. Didn't want yer bein' lonely."

"Nothin' else?"

"Eh? No, that was it. That was the argument. Over me bein' an interferin' old biddy 'oo couldn't let yer go even when yer were approachin' forty."

Approachin' forty. Last time I counted, I was forty-nine. I'm thirteen bloody years younger.

God, this was weird. Everything was weird. Gene exhaled deeply, leaning back into his pillows, watching his mam stroking his hand absent-mindedly, carefully avoiding the cannula.

"When yer better, yer need ter come up ter Manchester, my love. Refresh yer memory. Yeah? We'll try not ter overwhelm yer, yer need yer space, time. But Gene… never scare me again like yer did just now. I thought they were losin' yer. Please take more care."

"An' stop flittin' in an' out o' my room never decidin' whether yer stayin' or not." He didn't quite want to promise her what she'd asked. If the worst came to the worst… Alex had to come first. Especially as she'd be losing her child as well as her life.

Eileen Hunt lifted Gene's hand to her heart, and held it there until he fell asleep, and long after that.

A/N: After getting a U (too poor to grade) in my mock history exam last year, I have now been given an A (and a substantial one- one of the highest in my year!) for my history exam in January. Result is, I've been too busy celebrating to post anything- I went from being at the bottom of the scale to the top in just under a month, which by most people's reckoning is no small feat. I apologise for the delay- but hey, I've been enjoying being the centre of attention for once! Please remember to review, and I hope you enjoyed! Jazzola :D