I don't own Ashes to Ashes to Ashes

Thanks again for all of the great reviews :-)

Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Thanks to Feline once again :)

Let me know what you think!

Mage

x

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Gene knew it was the worst place to go; it was probably the first place they would think to look, but for some reason, he couldn't help himself. He drew up outside the station, dumped the car as quickly as possible, carelessly tossing the keys onto the driver's seat with no real ceremony, before he found himself walking swiftly in the direction of Luigi's, taking the side entrance into the building and glancing quickly into the deserted restaurant; with a sigh of relief, he realized that even Luigi had somewhere else to be, and he slipped a questing hand beneath the till, finding the spare key without difficulty before he walked swiftly up the stairs, his throat dry, his hands clammy with cold sweat. It wasn't strictly breaking and entering, he consoled himself- and even if it was, he'd already shot a serving police officer; why not go the whole hog?

He'd slipped into the familiar flat before he'd really even had time to think about what he was doing, and the moment the door was closed he snapped his eyes shut, wanting to block out everything that lay beyond the wooden barrier of the door. His head fell back against it as the onslaught of familiar scents consumed him, wrapping around his sinuses as he attempted to breathe more coherently, his heart thundering away in his chest.

There was a hint of hairspray, just tangible on his tongue as he breathed in deeply. It was slightly acrid, but it was scented with such familiarity that Gene's head spun with confusion. The warm, musky smell that he had come to associate with Alex's home drifted towards him, a mixture of shampoo, shower gel, perfume, beauty products, air freshener and wine. It was a feminine smell, and one that was completely Alex; the robust flavour of the wine, the warm flavours of its bouquet, the gentle spice of the perfume and the fruity scent of her soap all enveloped him, and he was wrapped in a haze of warmth, of pleasure, of complete contentment, for one single, blissful moment where he could forget the blood that stained his hands and trousers, where he could allow the wonderful, dreamy presence of her to consume him, to wipe away his worries and doubts and fears for these brief few seconds...

His eyes stayed closed, his heart beat slowing and calming, returning to normal for the first time since the shooting, bringing with it a wave of tiredness as the long surge of adrenaline that he had thought to be endless, suddenly fell away into nothingness. He felt naked, alone, completely shattered and broken, and his knees buckled slightly before he dared to open his eyes, gulping at the sight of her flat, so perfectly familiar in every way.

The pillows on the sofa were slightly crumpled, as though they had recently been laid upon, a small dent in their surface as though Alex had rested her head there as she watched the television set. A bottle of half-empty red wine stood on the coffee table, beside a glass which was, inevitably, empty. A small red mark stained the rim, and Gene could feel the insistent tug in his belly, the strange need to trace his fingers across that mark, to feel the lipstick stain his skin and prove that she had existed, that she still did exist, that he hadn't dreamt her up... He didn't do it.

He moved his eyes instead to the kitchen area, half-smiling at the seemingly unchanging layout; the sparkling surfaces which were never used appeared to be immaculately clean but for the considerable number of take-out containers that Luigi often gave her when she was too exhausted or angry to eat downstairs, piled high against one wall... He felt a brief pang as he remembered the many nights where they had walked together up the stairs to half-heartedly pick at their meals, but turned away before it could consume him, his eyes scanning the kitchen table for distraction; there wasn't much to see, apart from a newspaper, which was folded neatly in two, a coffee mug with just the dregs left in the bottom, and a teaspoon resting on the coaster as though to prevent stains on the cheap wooden table... He sighed, tearing himself away and looking at the slightly ajar door ahead of him.

He wanted to enter; he wanted to know that she'd woken up that morning, left the bed in a mess in her hurry to get up on time, tossed aside her pyjama's and thrown on her clothes, leaving yesterdays dirty washing in the corner beside the bathroom, where maybe she'd think to pick them up tomorrow, to put them in the wash... For some reason, he craved that knowledge more than anything, needed, with an abhorrent desperation, to know that she had intended to come back...

Gene could see it in his mind's eye, could remember the details of the few times he had entered that elusive room to lay a drunken Alex Drake safely into bed so that she didn't smash her head on the wall on her journey up the stairs- he remembered each time with such clarity that it was practically a photograph burned into his mind's eye... but the idea of entering the room without her, when she lay so close to death in a hospital bed by his own hand, felt indecent, wrong and disrespectful... And so he turned away, moving towards the sofa and sinking onto it with a sigh of familiarity, his hands absently moving across the surface, across the smooth fabric and the slight ridges where the threads were beginning to fray. It was cool beneath his hands, providing a strange sense of reassurance, of reality, of existence... He gulped, hesitantly reaching for the cushion, his hand closing around the soft, springy material, trailing the tassels between his fingers, letting them whisper against his skin and tickle him almost teasingly.

With his other hand, he gently traced the head-shaped dent, following the contours of the cushion that Alex's face had imprinted upon its surface, imagining her cheek pressed into it, imagining her squashed face as she slept, and snored, and lay there in a completely indecent manner, with her legs apart and arse in the air begging to be slapped, just as it had done that very first night in Luigi's where he'd copped a sneaky grope as she snored... His lips twitched slightly, but he drew his hand away, leaving the dent almost reverently as he reached, inevitably it seemed, for the bottle of wine she had left on the table...

It was, as he expected, Luigi's house rubbish; did she ever drink anything else, he wondered? With a sigh, he brought the bottle to his lips, taking a large gulp, swallowing with a grimace, and then following it down with yet another considerably measured swig. It tasted strange as it rolled down his dry throat; it seemed to grate, forcing itself down to his stomach, and he wasn't sure why he was so against the drink before when there was evidently nothing to it but water and a smidgeon of berries. He could barely even feel the cool liquid as it passed down his throat, the taste was minimal, and there wasn't enough content in it to really be called undrinkable...

And there was something oddly familiar, he thought, taking another swig, in the minimal taste and the smooth but somewhat thin texture as it rolled around his mouth... How many times had he and Alex sat on this very sofa, sharing this exact same brand of wine? It felt both incredibly right, and horrifically twisted at the same time, but somehow the thought that Alex had drunk half, leaving some for him, was comforting, almost as though she could forgive him, a silent promise to return to Gene at a later date, for another drink...

He looked into the bottle with a frown, considering whether or not three swigs were enough to make him pissed, or if he was still faintly buzzing with adrenaline and it was affecting his judgement... He couldn't decide, and nor did he want to. With a sigh, he sank back into the sofa, and closed his eyes, listening intently for anything, some sign of life and existence...

There was none.

It was empty, dead, completely abandoned, and the cold silence rang in Gene's ears, seeming both loud and quiet at the same time... He realized, perhaps for the first time, that silence could truly be deafening.

It completely consumed him; it seeped into his very being and sent shivers down his spine as he strained his ears, desperate for any noise to distract him... Because, suddenly, through the silence that wrapped him in a dark cocoon of worry, came the all-too-familiar crack of a bullet leaving the barrel, followed by the loud, and yet somehow quiet gasp that had left Alex's throat as it penetrated her skin, tearing into her body... He wanted to drown the sound out, to stop it from reaching his ears, because in the same moment that he had held the weapon in his hand, all taste and colour and sight had left him, just as it did now, replaced with the horrific intake of breath, the sickening thud as she hit the floor, the following silence that was unnatural – so devastatingly unnatural that he could swear he heard her breathing fall shallow, could swear he heard the rapid pounding of her heart as she fought for life so desperately-

He sat up, opening his eyes and shivering, his whole body covered in cold sweat.

Glancing around, he saw that darkness had fallen. As he moved to rest his head in his hands, seeking to hide the events of that day from his mind he saw bright red, the flashing colour of danger on his wrists, still stained with Alex's precious blood... And he knew instantly that he had to wash it away, knew that if he looked at it for another moment he would drive himself mad with anger... He scrambled to his feet and stumbled across the room, his heart thundering in his chest as he hesitated at the door, hand hovering over the handle before, with one deep breath, he pushed the door aside and stepped into her bedroom.

----

The smell was most pungent here. With the bathroom so close, the scented soap carried into the main bedroom, the closed windows holding it in, keeping it trapped in this room, as though reflecting his own desperate wanting not to lose her...

He shivered as he stood there, though he wasn't sure how to explain it; the room felt warm, and yet the strong presence of Alex made him nervous, scared, agitated... He looked around the room, breathing relief at the sight of the discarded clothing from the night before, at the rumpled red-satin sheets, the make-up which she had tossed back onto the bed as she left, and the wide-open wardrobe that was spilling with disarray, various items of clothing shoved back onto the rail in her hurry to dress... She'd meant to return; he was certain of it.

Gene touched a hand to the wooden door of the wardrobe, stroking lightly over the smooth surface, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, leaping up to his mouth. He stared at the massive array of clothes, clothes that he recognized; that flouncy blouse that she'd worn when she'd agreed to let him stamp her arse, that jumper dress where she'd been about to let him do just that... The black dress she had worn on their date stared back at him, the red blouse she often paired up with those gorgeous jeans that gripped her leg like nothing else, that huge cardigan that billowed around her as she walked, practically screaming that she was freezing, that she wanted to be wrapped up in someone's arms and held tight against the chill breeze, that-

Gene slammed the wardrobe door, falling away from it, feeling guilty and horrified as he stumbled towards the bathroom, the acrid taste of vomit rising in his throat as he went. He shouldn't be here, he thought. He should be hiding out at his own place, not holed up here sniffing around her flat like some pervy stalker. It was disgusting, completely wrong, and he had no right to be here, to see these things. It would be wrong even if she were sat downstairs laughing and joking with the team, but not now, not when she was hospitalized, white as a sheet and fighting for her precious life with his bullet buried in her stomach. He should be there with her, by her bedside, pulling his hair out with stress and ordering her to wake the fuck up before they arrested him and sent him down for attempted murder of a police officer. He shouldn't be sat in her flat, drinking wine from the bottle and stroking her pillow and taking pleasure in the smells she'd left behind... He should be stuck in a cell, shivering, cold, quaking with the effort of trying to suppress the memory of her blood-drained face and the piercing gasp as the bullet pierced her flesh, as the blood oozed out and covered her in it...

He was in the bathroom a second later, slamming the door behind him, dropping just his overcoat onto the linoleum covered floor before stepping into the shower fully clothed, twisting the knob around and blasting himself with torrents of icy water, standing beneath its cascades, feeling it saturate his shirt, his tie, his trousers, soaking him to the skin, leaving him shivering, his hair plastered to his skull... He violently scrubbed at the red stains on his wrists, watching as the water turned a diluted red, running into and staining the cuffs of his shirt, dripping to the floor and swirling down the drain like something from a horror film...

When his skin was clean, only when he was certain that he couldn't possibly scrub any harder, when his skin was raw and covered in a painful rash, did Gene step from the shower, still shivering, water dripping from his body and onto the floor... He didn't bother to clean it up, sinking onto the floor, his clothes soaked through with water, dripping and oozing water as he sat down, head rested against the glass panel behind him.

He shook endlessly, his body going into spasm as he tried to work through his guilt, his anger, and his pain, even as he attempted to gulp down the vile taste of vomit at the back of his throat that he had always associated with a job gone wrong... Eyes closed, he tried to breathe, tried to focus, tried to stop himself from thinking about anything other than the soft lull of the wind outside, the gentle thrum of music rising up through the floorboards from the restaurant below as Gene opened up for CID...

But it didn't help.

He could still see her.

She was terrified and alone, in a white room where her blood spilled onto the floor and burnt its image onto his mind's eye. She was shivering, cold, sobbing, barely breathing, her hands covered in blood as she reached out towards him, desperation in her gaze, her mouth opening and closing... but even when he knew she was talking, knew she needed his help, all he could hear was that gasp of pain, the deafening silence that he was terrified would never go away...

He was on his feet in moments, sodden clothes dripping onto the floor as he pushed out of the bathroom, coat under his arm, through the small bedroom where he refused to look at anything but the floor, and into the kitchen, where he reached towards Alex's drinks cabinet – the only one that had anything in it, apparently – and drew out the large bottle of whiskey that they'd started on the other night.

Three-quarters of it remained, and he unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his lips without a seconds thought, feeling nothing but a dull ache in his mouth when it should have burnt his throat, and still nothing as he took yet another swig... He felt nothing at all until he'd drunk enough of it to feel that odd, fleeting sense of calm that he had always associated with a drink; the fact it had taken half of the bottle to attain it should have worried him, but as he slumped to the floor against the kitchen unit, the bottle in his hand, reaching into his overcoat for cigarette and lighter, it didn't matter.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, the familiar feel of it a slight reassurance, the nicotine somehow hitting his bloodstream quicker than the booze had managed, making him light, dizzy, calmer than he'd felt for hours... He took another drag, watching the smoke rise upwards in the small room, wondering briefly if Alex would thump him for smoking in her flat, before sighing, absently bringing it back to his lips as he closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, gripping the bottle of whiskey in his hands, trying not to think...

The phone rang out in the darkness of the next room, and Gene's head snapped to attention, eyes open as it rang on and on and on.

It shouldn't have bothered him; it could have been anyone.

But he'd been in Alex's flat enough times to know that if she had a phone call, it was only ever from work, and that, in lieu of being shot in the stomach and comatose, it was highly unlikely that anyone from the station would be ringing her... Unless, of course, she had been discharged, and they were simply checking to see that she'd made it home? But if she hadn't made it home, then where was she? And why would they discharge her when she'd been unconscious for the day? They wouldn't, he told himself, gulping slightly.

His heart pounded, his pulse beating through his head like a mantra, the sound of the executioners drum thundering in his ears... They must have guessed where he would be, must have realized that, since he was a copper, he would go exactly where the copper was least likely to look, and therefore lead them straight to him... He should have thought more, he realized. He should have considered that Ray, Chris and Shaz knew him well enough to understand that he would do what was expected of a common criminal- he'd act like a copper.

Hands shaking, he stubbed his cigarette on the floor, tossing it into the slight puddle of water that had gathered where he sat before standing up and stalking through to the living room, staring at the red-corded telephone as it continued to ring out, shrill and piercing in the darkness of the room.

If he answered, he'd be handing himself over.

If he didn't, they'd only come here and break down the door anyway, and it wasn't like he could go and pick up the Quattro from the station and get away...

Pride won out, and his trembling fingers closed around the telephone, bringing the receiver to his ear as he refused to say a word.

The other end was silent but for a slight hitch of breathing, as though they had been waiting for something. For a while, they both seemed to wait for the other to speak up, until, eventually, Rays familiarly gruff voice reached down the line, his tone hesitant.

"Guv?"

Gene said nothing, glancing almost expectantly at the front door as he waited for Ray to tell him he was under arrest, that there were ten coppers outside the flat and they were going to bring him in...

"Guv, Tiny-Tim's sister – that Jenette bird- she says that bloke you shot's called Summers, wanted her to errr..." Ray hesitated again, and Gene could hear the gulp in his throat before he said, "Wanted her to split you up... Was payin' her for it – cut o' the kitty, like."

Gene stayed silent, waiting for something – anything. It came when Ray spoke again, his voice low.

"They've got a witness, Guv; some old bird were walking her dog round thereabouts this morning- said you weren't tryin' to kill DI Drake, an' Jenette came outta nowhere with a gun to the Boss's 'ead..." Another pause, then, "Super says yer off the hook, Guv, s'long as you're in his office by morning – nine o'clock."

Gene gulped, nodding, though he knew Ray couldn't see. "Cheers, Raymondo," He murmured, then hung up the phone.

---

He should have been relieved he realized as he sat on the floor, his head resting back on the comfortably cushioned sofa. He'd been as good as cleared - apart from the minor part about resisting arrest and evading justice, which he was certain he'd get well and truly talked down for – but the worry still nagged at his mind, and he realized, like a punch to the gut, that it wasn't his own fate that he was primarily worried about.

The thought of prison and cop-haters had driven him into panic before, covering up the knot of worry for Alex herself as a nagging doubt about his own future... but now, even after finding out that he was going to be freed, his mind was clouded with worry, doubt, fear, concern and utter horror at the possibility that Alex wouldn't pull through... It could have been anyone; he'd have felt guilty as shit and drowned himself in a bathtub of booze if they died, but he wouldn't have felt this- this sense of hollow emptiness, the feeling that he was missing a part of him, like an arm or a leg had been severed from his body with a blunt instrument and then flung aside without thought to the fact that he was incapable of surviving without it...

Until now, he hadn't realize how much he relied on Alex, but suddenly it hit him, like a hammer to the stomach; she was his crutch, his stronghold, his unwavering source of support and sanction, and the fact that he had shot her, of all the innocent people he could have possibly pointed a gun at, hurt more than he could have ever known...

She was struggling between life and death, which would have half-killed him as it was – he'd practically felt the blood boiling in his stomach when she'd been so close to dying in that freezer, and he'd barely known her way back then – but to be the cause of it, to have been the one to put her there, in that cold hospital bed, in a room where the sunlight barely broke through the window, with a gaping wound in her side that was inflicted by his own weapon? It tore at his innards like a frightened animal caught in the crossfire and struggling for an escape.

In some ways, the revelation that he wasn't going to be punished was doing him no good at all; was he expected to wash over it? Forget it happened? Treat it like a simple accident that could have happened to anyone?

If it had been Chris or Ray pulling the trigger, Gene would have been beating them to a pulp at this moment, screaming and shouting and ranting and roaring at their lack of conduct, the fact they couldn't aim for beans, the fact they panicked like amateurs and pulled the trigger and nearly killed his Bolly...

And what if that was what he himself had to deal with? What if, despite his rank, his notoriety and his established ability to police the streets, the people he worked with saw him for a useless, past-his-best, washed out copper, who'd pissed away the best years of his life and lost any sense of accuracy, of right and wrong, of good and bad?

They'd all heard him threaten to kill her, all heard him speaking about potential murder suspects who'd made a threat and followed it through the very next day... At least if he was stuck in a cell, the worst distaste he'd have to endure would be that of Viv; it would be horrific, but at least it wouldn't be the whole of CID staring down their noses at him, calling him a pathetic excuse for a man when his back was turned...

He drank down the last of the whiskey, dropping the empty bottle on the floor and returning to the kitchen to draw out another bottle; vodka, rum, brandy, or wine?

He took the vodka; it wasn't normally his drink of choice, but it was strong, and he could barely taste anything as it was. There was a slight burning down the back of his throat, oddly reassuring as it seared its way down, and although the taste evaded him, he felt better for it, returning to his spot on the floor, barely noticing the way his clothes still clung to his skin, ignoring the discomfort as he settled his head back, hair drying on his head.

The flat was cool, chill with the night air and the lack of heating following Gene's complete lack of motivation to get up and turn it on; somehow, the cold kept him sane. The shivers that shot down his spine were nothing to do with the chill of the room, but at least he could pretend, fool himself as the night dragged on that the chills weren't his own, that they were just from the cold and nothing more...

He felt as though all of his blood had left his body, as though it slid away from him as surely as it had slid from Alex's wound and onto the pavement. He felt empty, hollow, overly light-headed, and completely alone; he was chilled from the inside out, and there was nothing he could do, no way to warm himself up.

The age-old methods he had always relied on –alcohol and cigarettes- seemed as hollow as the gap where his heart should be; he knew it still beat beneath his skin, knew that it was still pounding with suppressed self-loathing, but he couldn't feel it anymore... He felt completely, irrevocably numb, more so than he had ever known, more than any alcohol-induced stupor he had ever entered into- numb with an emotion he so rarely experienced, but that, once it reared its ugly head, seemed to paralyse him from the neck down; fear.

He shook, he broke out in cold sweats, he smoked away fifteen cigarettes within the hour and he flicked his lighter repeatedly in agitation, watching the orange light as it flickered on and off in the darkness of the flat.

He should turn on the light. He shouldn't sit here in the dark like a common criminal, hiding out from the law because he was too scared to face the consequences; he wasn't even on the lam anymore, he thought. He was as good as cleared, aside from the small problem of running away from the crime scene, sneaking into the hospital and having Ray pretend he hadn't seen him... But Gene realized, sat in the dark with cold sweat trickling down his brow, the smell lingering in the air and causing him to wrinkle his nose in distaste, that he wanted to be a criminal; he wanted to have an accepted reason to feel so guilty, wanted to be punished for the pain he had so thoughtlessly inflicted on Alex, and not just in the form of a lead bullet tearing into her stomach muscles and ripping through her...

The words that had left his mouth had been unforgiveable, and if Alex wasn't able to dress him down and bully him for it, he wanted someone to; he wanted someone to turn around and smack him in the face, punch him in the jaw and break it so that he wouldn't ever have to talk again...

He felt like common filth.

He was scum.

He was low, juvenile, childish and vindictive; there was no reason, no motive, no explanation for his actions... They simply happened.

He had scorned her, turned her away and replaced her with a cheap mimic that could never compare to her, because she was blonde to Alex's brown, black to Alex's white, green to Alex's hazel and plain to Alex's beauty... How he had done it, he would never know; his mind had been full of Alex's scent, even as his mouth descended onto Jenette's. He had told himself, even as he betrayed her with his body, that she deserved it, that she had made a mockery of him, pissed in his face and thrown his respect to the dogs.

His mind had screamed insults at her, daring him to continue on down the path of betrayal, to turn her further away from him and make as much of a mockery of her as she had made of him; but he couldn't even consider that now.

Perhaps Alex had lied – perhaps she had good reason to do so. Maybe, in the midst of all the confusion, it wasn't a matter of whether or not she was 'connected' to him- it was a matter of whether or not she could trust him... and perhaps she worried that she couldn't.

Would it have been so hard, he questioned himself, to have sat her down – in his office, in Luigi's, in the Quattro, wherever she felt comfortable- and asked for an explanation, without flying off the handle and speaking with such bitter resentment?

The fact that he had said such horrific things to her still rankled; insulting her daughter, when he had no idea of the circumstance, of the reason she couldn't see her... He hadn't considered, in his narrow mindset, that perhaps she wasn't accessible; through custody, or death, or whatever else, he'd never paused to find out, never thought to ask her... All those nights holed up in Luigi's, in this very flat, in the office, on the job- why had he never said anything, never questioned her about it? She'd been pissed enough to have told him the truth on more than one occasion, and yet he had never taken the time to find out, always opting for the casual flirtation, the half-hearted discussion as to the latest case, the teasing and laughing over Luigi's god-awful pasta...

He'd never given her a chance to explain things, and sitting there, his mind awash with misery, the half-empty bottle of vodka in his lap and yet another cigarette smoking away between his still trembling fingers, he wondered if he would ever get the chance again.

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Mage of the Heart