Hello! I'm back! :D AAANNND I have chapter 5 all written and ready for you, happiness just around the corners everyone, right enough blabbering from me...on with the chapter, it's Gene's turn now, happy reading (oooh and thanks for all your reviews- special thanks to Eleantris and Meganbellaroseblack 3) xxxxxxxxx

It was like the world has stopped turning. The last candle burnt out, its waxy, colourless coating finally shedding one last drop. The spark, forcing out a last flicker of flame, finally admitted defeat, into the shadows of nothingness.

He was darker now; that was fact, not fiction. His permanent poker face was never blessed with a smile, nor graced with a brooding pout. His eyes no longer grasped their silver glow, but let the life seep down into the tiles beneath. Dark, also.

Dark like his mood. The way he walked, the way he addressed those around him. The way he just sat and stared. His departure, at the same time every night, to the icy embrace of his home. How not one glass; not one drop; not one atom of booze kissed his lips anymore.

Because that was when he'd know - know that he was beyond the point of no return, over the line he set for himself, gone too far from the point of rescue.

For if he ventured into that adorable lake - he feared he'd never swim free.

This time, there was no bird with a perm and mini skirt to throw him a rubber ring and let him go. And hell would freeze over before he let another piece of skirt turn his head.

So for now he'd just wander helplessly on the pier, debating whether to dive in, or turn back - at least now in the beaten, creaky, flaky weathered beams of his life, he was safe.

A quick plunge seemed all too easy, however its movements were mesmerising; its smell captivating. It was all he could do to stay grounded.

He'd see her now and again; when he closed his eyes he could picture her perfectly, every long eyelash fluttering gently over her hazel orbs, carefully masked by layers of dark make up; but he still noticed. He always noticed. Noticed the way the whole world seemed to brighten when she smiled, the way her smart, sleek bob would dance around her features when she moved...the way her skin felt against his, how soft and warm her breath was against his neck, how beautiful and wanted she made him feel.

You see Gene Hunt had never been wanted, not really anyway. He was there when he was needed of course, but it wasn't that people needed him, they just needed someone to carry them or hold their hand. They just needed bones, and muscles to move those bones. Mainly muscle

And Gene Hunt had spent his life trying to prove he was more than just muscle.

His mam had thought so; his teachers had thought so. Gene Hunt: muscle machine, rugby player, boxer...bully.

You see in spite of all this, being muscle was no compliment to him. Being muscle meant being his dad.

The beatings still haunted him, whispering round every corner, cackling behind his back like a witch - the long pointed fingers of his mind sending him in the right direction. He remembered the purples, the blacks and the yellows of his father's menace as the brew of his memories became thicker and thicker. He saw the angry flames in his eyes - ones all too familiar in his own, staring down without an ounce of remorse.

For those three short, perfect weeks, when the worst was about to come, she was there. Her. His guardian. His angel, even in his dreams. Sometimes she offered a simple smile, a wave. Other times a kiss. But whatever it was, whatever ingredients she put inside her own spell, it worked. And everything would be alright again.

Yet not so much anymore. He'd see a smile that quickly faded to be replaced by a hurt, tear stained, broken woman who provided fuel to the fire, to send him off to total darkness.

He only woke to an empty bed now, only went to an empty job, listening to empty sounds and eating empty food. He staggered through his days like clockwork. A living comatose of a man, walking aimlessly through the streets of London, looking for a purpose.

And then he saw her.

She looked...dead. Her flimsy clothes, her limp hair, a worn, elderly expression on her face. He saw her with aqua, marine, sky, turquoise, royal...a boy. She was having a boy. A son. His son if he earned it. If things were different.

Some days he found himself regretting the night. That night. The night to end all nights. He regretted the way the witch filled his every cell and cast its evil spells her way...he didn't expect to be so angry- but the things he heard made him look. Made him look at himself and see… what? An endless list of disappointments, of failures. Of let-down after let-down. Then he thought of her, of her endless list: attributes, perfections, successes. Hell, a baby was better with no father than a shit one. He was the living proof.

That blob, that he still kept in his wallet with a little help from the photocopier, was better off not wanting to be like his daddy, the big tough guy that everyone looked up to. Because, well that wasn't real, not as far as he was concerned. It might be real to Ray and Chris or even Shaz- but not to him. What was real was a man who, despite the bravado and the words and the stares, was lost. Constantly out of his depth. Having to prove to himself more than others that he was worth more than change out of a wishing well, that he was wanted, needed. That it was worth fighting another day.

He wondered occasionally, what would've happened if he had stayed. He would've tried, he was sure of that. But if one too many fuck ups would ruin his world then he was best off with his pier of indifference.

It was like that with Jenna, and with Alice. He'd given it his damn best shot and he'd swore to whatever was out there that he would give being a dad his absolute best shot. But it seemed that the dice rolled for him hadn't included the double six needed for parenthood. Cot death after two short weeks. She'd blamed him, and he'd turned into an award-winningly shit husband. And he couldn't put Alex through that. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. She was worth princes and diamonds, while the most he deserved was peasants and carrots.

Could a dice be rolled again? Could the tables be turned? A wise man had once told him that there was no point in living if you fear failure with every step. He'd never had carrots with diamonds, but who was to say that it wouldn't work out?

The picture of Sam on the notice board seemed to agree with him. Sam. Gladys. He'd know exactly what to do, what to say to win her back. How to make things right- but this was one trip the Gene Genie had to make alone.

Hell, there was nothing to lose and everything to gain.

So it was then in a dimly lit office on a cold September evening that Eugene Arthur Hunt turned away from the white ribbon of loneliness and made a decision.

He needed her.