I don't own Ashes to Ashes

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Within ten minutes he was knocking on her door, hair scruffy and clothes dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep and voice slightly croaky. She answered, wearing a loose-hanging red dressing-gown, which she'd thrown over a big t-shirt that hung to mid-thigh and lead down to long, perfectly toned legs. He blinked, unwittingly distracted, then met her eyes; her make-up was blotchy, her eyes were puffy, and her hair looked as though she'd been running her fingers repeatedly through it for hours. There was a moment of awkwardness, in which Gene stood, hands in the pockets of his day-off jeans, long-sleeved Rugby shirt pulled down over his wrists, Adams-apple rising and falling as he looked at her, thoroughly lost for things to say. She was staring at him intently, as though searching for something... and then, whatever it was, it seemed to arrive, seemed to arrive in the form of a loud, gut wrenching sob that practically projected her against his chest, her arms going around his neck, her body pressed flush to his.

Gene froze, hands still in his pockets, Alex sobbing -with apparent lack of shame- onto his white rugby shirt, and he could practically feel the make-up staining it, and all he would allow himself to think was how difficult it would be to wash, because the feeling of her body so close to his was almost unbearably blissful, and the worst thing he could do at that moment would be to act on that feeling of contentment... But even though he tried to concentrate on the fact that her mascara would be making black splodges on his shirt, he couldn't fight the feeling that he should envelop her in his arms and bury his face in her hair...

"I'm scared, Gene..." she sobbed, "I'm scared..."

And that was all it took.

He carefully –and with some difficulty, given her precariously close flush against his body- dislodged his hands from his pockets, moving to put them around her...

But where did he put his hands? The only woman he hugged in a non-sexual way was his Mam, and that rarely lasted longer than a few seconds, and though he always felt that he should keep his hands to the top end of her back, he was stupidly uncomfortable if his fingers touched the outline of her bra... but this wasn't a quick hug, and it wasn't sexual, despite the way Alex was holding herself against him, to the point she was so close he could feel her heart pounding against his chest... So where did he put his hands? Too low, she'd think he was copping a feel in her hour of need, too high and it'd become that uncomfortable bra-strap scenario once again... was she even wearing a bra under that t-shirt? Oh Jesus, he thought, hands moving in the air and pausing over different areas of her back as he deliberated over where to put them...

In the end, he opted neither for the lower or higher end of her back, instead wrapping his arms so tightly around her that she was completely enveloped in his hold, his chin resting on her head, one hand rubbing circles on her side, while the other gently stroked her opposite shoulder. There; he'd managed to somehow avoid both her arse and her bra, and it hadn't even compromised the intimacy of the moment... in fact, unless he was imagining things, she was clinging to him tighter, body racked with sobs, one hand gently rubbing the back of his neck, seeking solace and reassurance from the gentle fuzz of hair growth. He sighed, breathing into her hair and continuing to gently soothe her through his actions, trying to ignore the stirring feeling in his groin that was responding to her own soft touch...

"'t's alright, Bols... It's alright..." He looked up at the ceiling as her other hand scrunched his shirt in her grip, nails tickling over his skin and forcing him to shiver.

"You...you're... c... cold," Alex managed through her sobs.

Gene thought about denying it, but the growing sensation of arousal was becoming dangerously noticeable, so he nodded. "Yeah... 'ow 'bout we go inside an' I make us a brew?"

Giving another shaking sob, Alex nodded, pulling back considerably, meeting his blue eyes with her own glistening brown ones. He gave her a small quirk of the lips, and then nodded to the flat. "Let's get you in, 'ey?"

"Bet you say that to all the girls," Alex sniffed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dressing gown, though one hand remained on his shoulder, gently scrunching and un-scrunching the fabric between her fingers. Gene let his own hands fall from her waist, smirking ever so slightly.

"Only the damsels, Bols," he said, moving to gently grasp her shoulders and turn her around into the flat, steering her towards the sofa without removing his hands. "Si' down, an' I'll fix you a cuppa..." then he stopped, blinking. "'Ow'd you 'ave it?" It struck him, suddenly, that he hadn't actually made her a cup of tea in the whole of the time he'd worked with her... he generally sat in the kitchen while she made hers, munching on a garibaldi and admiring the view of her behind...

"Quite dark... one sugar..." she settled onto the sofa, still swiping at her nose and eyes with her sleeve. "The... the tea and sugar are above the sink... and..."

"I'll find the milk, Bols," he said gruffly. "I'm a bloody detective, aren't I?"

Alex smiled through her tears and nodded. "Yes, Guv."

---

When he returned, carrying two steaming cups in his hands, he found her rocking back and forth on the sofa, eyes staring into space as she swayed. He placed the cups before her on the coffee table, moving around the flat and turning off the lights to the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, flicking the table lamp on and dulling the main light so the room was more dim. She started to shake, panic setting in as her eyes darted in every direction...

The fear was rising in her throat, gripping at her lungs and clawing at the back of her mouth like nausea. She looked, but barely noticed anything, eyes flashing round the whole room without reason... and then he'd knelt in front of her, his stern blue eyes calming her down almost instantaneously, and though the fear remained, the blind panic dimmed away.

"It's just the lights, Bolly; nothing scary 'bout a light." Her fingers were clenching and unclenching on her bare legs, looking painful, tense, and without really thinking, he caught one hand in his, only really considering the action after she'd squeezed his palm almost painfully in reciprocation. With a stifled sob, she moved her spare hand to tentatively pat the seat beside her, eyes never leaving his, asking a silent, pleading question...

He didn't say anything, simply lifting himself up from on his knees and sitting down slowly as she curled her legs out from beneath her, placing them on the floor. She looked uncomfortable and rigid and, one hand still in hers, he shifted slightly closer, placing a gentle arm around her shoulders. She barely seemed to register it at all, and he wanted desperately to withdraw his arm to stop the complete feeling of uselessness that swept over him. But he couldn't, could he? So instead he sat, for what felt like forever, as she remained stock still in the crook of his arm... eventually, he squeezed her hand tighter in his, speaking gently. "Best drink your tea, Bols, gunna get cold..."

There was a long, stretched silence, and then she whispered, after several moments, "cold..." The word hung in the air like a noose dangling before his eyes, and he could see that, somehow, he'd managed to trip over his tongue and say the wrong thing, but he still didn't know how or why... gods, he barely knew why he was here, didn't know why he'd jumped out of bed so willingly, arrived so imminently... He didn't understand the reasons behind his actions, and he didn't know why they were required... so what exactly was he doing here?

"Molly..." she murmured, and his head turned towards her slowly, feeling her hands clam up with sweat in his. "Cold..." And then the tears began again, not as harsh and violent and body-racking as before, and somehow the gentle, silent trickle of the small tears down her cheeks was worse. "My little Molly..." Her eyes were fixated on the table as though something were lying there, staring her in the face, and Gene did the only thing he could think of; he pulled his hand from hers, reaching to cup her face and twisting it to face him.

"Nothin' to look at, Bollykecks..." but her eyes were darting to the left, still fixed on the coffee table as though she couldn't be drawn away from it. Gene moved his hand into her line of sight, blocking out the table completely and whispering. "What's got into you, Bols?" His voice was gruff, but she couldn't deny the concern and worry that breached his tone, putting a strange edge to it that made her momentarily stare into those blue orbs, seeking reassurance in the depths of his eyes, in the flecks of gold that speckled his iris...

"Molly..." she whispered, and suddenly she cracked again, collapsing forwards onto his chest, tears falling like waterfalls as she wept again onto the fabric of his shirt. He closed his eyes briefly, and then dropped the arm which had been resting along the back of the sofa, draped calmly over her shoulders, to hold her gently, leaving his other hand across her face, blocking the view of the table and tentatively caressing the slight contours of her face as she buried her nose in his clothes, fingers clutching at him painfully. Trying not to let out a hiss of pain, he ran his finger over her face continuously, memorising it to the touch without thought... he took in the gentle dip at the corner of her eye, the slight ridge of her cheekbone and the slight slant as his fingers traced down across her cheeks, to the slightly sharper corner of her chin... Her breathing was slowing down, though still ragged and heavy, but they were becoming more regular, less sharp intakes of air, and slowly, very gradually, she stilled, holding onto him, not as desperately as before, but still with a clear desire for physical contact... After a while, his back began to hurt from sitting without a rest, and, instead of sitting back and making them both uncomfortable, he gently hooked his arms under her legs, pulling her close against his chest and settling her in his lap, reclining slowly on the sofa until his head hit the arm rest. She didn't make any attempt to move away from him; all she did was slide her arm across his chest and settle her face into the crook of his neck.

"Gene..." she said quietly after some time had passed.

"Get some sleep, Bols," he murmured, bringing a hand to her hair. "You're gunna need it..."

"No," she whispered. "I can't... I won't..." she sniffed again, and Gene twisted his head to meet her eyes.

"Then what d'you want from the Gene Genie at this time o' night?" There was a small, playful edge in his voice and her tense body visibly relaxed against him.

She remained quiet a few moments, then murmured, "Can I tell you about Molly?"

There was an unreasonable amount of fear in her voice, as though she really thought he'd deny her that small pleasure; he'd never have breached the subject again himself given that days brush off to his enquiries, but there was a part of him that was still intrigued by that unheard of part of her life... so he gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze, before saying, "Yeah, Bols... I'd like that."

---

So she told him; she told him how Molly loved The Pussycat Dolls, but hated the Sugababes- Gene assumed they were two different types of toy that were only ever discovered by those with children.

She told him how Molly's favourite meal was her godfathers homemade shepherd's pie, and how she liked it served with lots of gravy, potatoes, carrots and parsnips, but if a pea was anywhere near her plate she would bemoan it for the rest of the night.

She told him how, once, Molly had tried to run away, but had returned ten minutes later because she realized her favourite programme was on, and that she wanted to watch the television.

Gene listened, his arm constantly around her shoulders, his other hands fingers running in gentle circles across her shoulder blades, down her arms, dancing down her spine and up again in a consoling gesture... when she finished, he squeezed her gently, looking down at her to see the slightly calmer expression that had graced her face. Tear-tracks still marked her face, and her eyes were still puffy, but she was calmer, more collected...

"Do you think Rosa... do you think... what was she like?" Her voice was soft, reflective, not bitter or sad, just questioning, inquisitive...

"I reckon she was just another teenage girl, Bols; 'ad a laugh with her mates, liked a drink or two with 'er fella, argued with 'er Mam and worried 'bout 'ow she looked." He squeezed her as she winced, grimacing, and he knew that, in her head, she was seeing the flesh hacked away, the yellowed skin of malnutrition, the pallor of white at the loss of blood. And he knew that she was reinforcing her own theories as to how Rosa McKellen came to be dead; and though he didn't agree it was suicide, he didn't bother to say so, instead continuing to speak, even though words were becoming increasingly difficult to voice as she rubbed his side gently with the palm of her hand, brushing the fabric of his shirt over the soft skin that lay beneath. "Probably read Mills 'n' Boon, had dreams o' being an actress, 'ated school and wan'ed to see the world..." He looked her deep in the eyes and whispered, "I ain't gonna lie to you Bols; she was probably just like your Molly... bit rebellious, stubborn as an ass, and bright as a new penny..." he cupped her cheek gently and brushed away the single tear that trickled from her eye. "You know this sorta thing don' 'appen often Bolly... me an' you both ain't never seen the like before... somethin' this bad, this... this messy... don' 'appen often, Bols..." His eyes were boring into hers, and he could feel her shaking again before he whispered, "an' I need your 'ead screwed on the right way for this, Bollykecks... 'cause if I don' 'ave your psychtwattery going off in me ear, we ain't gonna find this bastard..."

The sentence lingered, then dissipated in the gaze they shared, eyes warm and full of feeling... she was shifting slightly, turning her head more towards his... her lips were parted, wet, glistening in the light... then he cleared his throat, breaking the eye contact and shifting slightly, his eyes facing up to the ceiling as he continued to feel her lingering gaze on his skin...

"Gene," she murmured.

"Yes, Bols," he answered, eyes still on the ceiling as he avoided the temptation of meeting her eyes.

"Thank you..." Her voice was timid, and he couldn't help turning his head to look at her. His eyes were sincere as he spoke again.

"Told you, Bolly... any place I'm needed, I'm there..." She was looking at him again, coming closer, so close he could smell the perfume of her skin; it was intoxicating and he was practically putty as she moved her mouth closer to his face... she looked stupidly gorgeous, even with the makeup stains on her cheeks. Her lips were bigger than he'd noticed before; plump, glistening, red....

Red...

Red for danger and passion and love and heat... which was it that was coming towards him?

Danger, he thought. Red light; Danger. Bloody stupid idea...

And just as her mouth came to within a centimetre of his, he moved his head slightly aside so that she brushed the rough stubble that scattered his cheek with her soft lips.

"Bols," he murmured, closing his eyes and pressing his hand into her back to encourage her not to move away from him. "We can't... you're not thinkin' straight... you'd regret it tomorrow." He didn't meet her gaze, blinking quickly and fixing his vision on the phone on the opposite side of the room.

There was a moment of silence, and Gene wondered if he'd said the wrong thing... then her quiet voice answered and he closed his eyes to the perfect little posh lilt that drove him wild... "Thank you..." she murmured, "but even if I'm not thinking straight... I know I wouldn't regret it."

He felt her rest her head on his chest and he sighed with relief, wrapping her tighter still in his arms. "Maybe not, Bols... but let's not try an' find out tonight, 'ey?" She nodded against him and he smiled slightly, closing his eyes.

"Gene?"

He couldn't help the grin that spread over his face as he said "yes Bols," once again.

"Will you stay the night?"

Looking at the clock, Gene shrugged. "It's five in the morning, Bollyknickers... doubt I'd sleep if I 'eaded 'ome now anyway."

There was a small silence before she added, "Is that a yes?"

He chuckled, holding her closer still. "Yeah, Bols, I'll stay. Now try an' get some kip... gotta work in the mornin'..."

"Poof," she muttered into his chest. He smiled.

---

When he woke up a few hours later, he was somewhat surprised – though not upset – to find Alex's hand under his rugby shirt, rubbing gentle, teasing circles on his back as she dozed beside him. Somehow, in the course of the night, they'd managed to roll so that he was pressing her into the back of the sofa, their legs tangled up and both pairs of arms firmly settled around one another as they slept. Her hair tickled his face lightly, her face still pressed into his neck.

----

Alex didn't sleep; her eyes stayed closed, head rested on his chest throughout the night, but she wouldn't allow the threat of sleep to penetrate her mind... even with Gene's reassuring presence, she knew that in sleep her subconscious would dredge up the thing she feared the most, and that, away from the feel of Gene's body so close to hers, she'd give in to fear, panic and scream and cry as she had before... so she settled against him, waiting until he fell asleep and she could hear the gentle sound of his breathing, before she slid her hand up the back of his shirt, seeking the reassurance of his warm skin on hers... He shifted slightly closer at the touch of her cool hand, and she stilled, opening her eyes briefly to look up into his face.

He looked handsome; not typically handsome like Peter had been... more rugged, more dangerous... more sexy. She had to admit, the sight of him in his jeans and rugby shirt, a look she wouldn't have pictured him in, but one she whole-heartedly supported now, had done wonders to help her calm down, loosening some of the pain that wrapped itself around her as she'd taken in the way the shirt showed off his broad shoulders, and how the dark blue jeans, baggy on his legs, slimmed his behind and firmed it up, making it hard for her to resist running her hand across it... She tore her mind away from that image, looking closely into his face once again...

He looked younger, too... like sleep had taken off the stress of his day-to-day life, as though the weight of the world disappeared as he sank into his dream world... she wished she could follow, wished she could take his hand and join him in whatever blissful, pain-free world he now found himself in... but even though she was wrapped closer to him than she'd ever been, it was only out of comfort that he lay here; she had heard his response to her advances, and it was clear now that, while he was here, wrapped around her, it was only out of consolation, friendship, companionship... the romantic feelings she might have deluded herself into believing were mutual didn't exist; she was alone on that path, just as she was alone on her search to reach Molly, to look after her...

But while he was here, holding her protectively and consolingly, she swore to enjoy his company, to treasure every moment in which she could bury her face into his neck and inhale the faded smell of his aftershave without his judging her... So she lay, stroking his back, eyes closed, head resting on his shoulders, against his neck... and during the night, as he shifted in sleep, she allowed herself the simple pleasure of moving with him, echoing his movements and allowing him whichever position his subconscious state decided to place them in... And when he stirred, showing the first signs of awakening, she kept her eyes closed, breathing levelly and feigning sleep, tragically unable to keep the smile from dancing across her lips.

---

He thought about moving, but looking down at her, she seemed content in sleep, a small smile on her face, her breathing gentle and soothing to the ear... He shifted only slightly to avoid the aching pain in his left calf where the sole of his shoe was pressing firmly against him. He let out a small groan as cramp settled in at the onset of movement, cursing himself as Alex shifted slightly against him, hand moving further up his back and sending a delighted shiver down his spine.

"Morning," she murmured, eyes closed, hands still caressing his skin, and he nearly fell off the sofa. It was one thing to subconsciously react to the pressing of another body to yours in sleep, but she was willingly caressing his bare back now, stroking, tickling...

"'ey?" was all he could manage to voice, and she let out a half giggle.

"Go back to sleep," she yawned, shifting so that the gap he had made in his shock was breached, body lengths well pressed into one another. Gene gulped, glancing towards the clock and willing his body not to respond to her closeness; it was quarter to seven; definitely not early enough to excuse himself, since they didn't need to be at the office until nine, and his running away would only make things awkward later.

"Yeah..." he grunted, shifting slightly away. When she snuggled closer again he groaned, pushing her slightly away and meeting her eyes as she looked up in confusion and hurt. "Bols, I'm a bloody bloke, it's mornin' and I 'aven't gone for a piss yet... d'you really wanna be pressing up like that?"

She smiled initially, opening her mouth to say something, before sighing and nodding. "Fine." There was an expectant look in her eye and he frowned, until she finally said. "I thought you wanted to go to the toilet?"

Gene stared, then rolled his eyes. "Bloody 'ell Bols, what's got into you?" He disentangled his limbs from hers, somewhat disappointed when her hand slid out from under his shirt, almost regretting his decision to tell her it was a bad idea... almost... but not quite.

"Nothing, Gene," she said innocently, "maybe that's the problem?"

The flirtatious tone in her voice made him stop his movement towards the bathroom, his eyes inquisitive... "Yeah... bet it is, Bols... they 'ave shops for people like you, you know."

"Nothing like the real thing though, is there Guv?" She was waggling her eyebrows now, taunting him, sitting up and alerting him to the fact her shirt had ridden up, the dressing gown tangled in itself behind her back, revealing her long legs, the curve of her buttocks and the blue lace of her knickers.

There was a moment where they both stared at one another, and then he was pushing her down onto the sofa, gentle but firm, until her head hit the armrest, laying his body along hers. He dipped his head, tracing the tip of his nose upwards from her collarbone, up the side of her neck, over the softness of her cheeks... his breath was warm on her skin, his eyes closed, nose moving slowly over to her ear, which he nuzzled briefly, before whispering, in a gruff, loaded and lustful voice, "you couldn' 'andle me, Bollykecks..." he inhaled the scent of her hair before pressing his slightly chapped lips to her earlobe and murmuring to her, "I eat posh tarts like you for breakfast."

Alex was shaking beneath him, a warmth pooling between her thighs that she couldn't begin to understand; he'd barely touched her. "I'm not sure I believe you, mister Hunt," she said softly. In response, Gene blew lightly in her ear, one hand lifting up to trace it slowly... Alex shivered. Christ, he was good at this.

"Believe it, Bols..." he growled. "You'd be creamin' yourself for weeks."

"That doesn't sound so bad..." Alex trailed off as Gene cupped her face between his hands, grip tight, fierce, yet warm... she was completely captivated by his eyes, fixated on hers with burning lust in their depths; she bit her lip as he whispered to her.

"I... I'd ruin you, Alex... so don' tempt me."

---

Thank you for those who continue to read; I hope it's up to standard!

Mage of the Heart