I don't own Ashes to Ashes

I apologise that Gene is still suffering... there's not long left of this story now I don't think – 5 chapters or so, probably, two of which are already written – so I hope you'll stick by him and find out what happens...

Until then... well... I'm sorry?

---

Gene was in the bed less than half an hour later, his body having been thoroughly washed, his teeth scrubbed, and several whiskeys thrown down his throat, though it nothing to quell the guilt and anger that rose up in his chest every time he dared to think back on it.

He'd seen the same feelings reflected in Luigi's eyes as he'd walked up the stairs, and knew the other man was disgusted, knew that if Gene hadn't already been in possession of the key, the old Italian would never have allowed him in; Gene couldn't even bring himself to be annoyed.

The fact of the matter was, he was angry with himself for having let anything happen; even the flirting - which might have been harmless had it not escalated with such speed and indecency- had turned his stomach and roused feelings of guilt so intense that he had wanted to disappear, to be swallowed up by a large, black hole. The fact he had been as indecent as to return here, to lose himself in the familiarity of Alex's flat when he felt like he had committed the ultimate betrayal, only made him feel worse. He wished he could bring himself to go home, to sleep in his own bed without the added guilt in his stomach that said he was scum and had no right to be here...

He felt awful; and yet, despite it all, the moment he sank onto her pillow his heart rate slowed, his breathing became regular, and the pit of despair seemed to close slightly, a warm glow emanating from deep within.

He should have fled home and lost himself in his alcohol collection; he shouldn't be able to lie here, surrounded by the smell of her perfume - which he had uncharacteristically spritzed over the fading scent of her on the pillow- without feeling as though he deserved to die.

But he felt safe; she was here, whenever he needed her, and aside from the hospital, this was the only place he'd ever felt able to be himself, to let himself feel peaceful and warm, since the shooting.

It wasn't that he didn't feel guilty, exactly; more that here, whilst the guilt was at its peak and should have been unbearable, it was quenched by the knowledge that this place was so inarguably hers. Her presence was still achingly strong in the whole of the flat itself, and sitting here with his eyes closed, he could delude himself that she was at his side, less than an arm's reach away... And as long as he didn't reach out for her, nor open his eyes, he could believe it, for some perfect, beautiful seconds that seemed to save his very soul day after day.

He should have felt sick to the stomach when he entered, but all he could feel was relief, and as he laid down on the bed, his nose buried in the familiar scent that he had longed for so hungrily as he stood there in the alley, all he could think was that tomorrow, he could see her face again, could hold her cool hand in his and murmur softly to her sleeping form.

He should have felt sick; instead, he drifted off to sleep with ease.

---

He recognised the office instantly; he'd spent years here, perfecting his environment until it was inarguably his own, unquestioningly Gene. His posters were on the wall, his trophies decorating the shelves, a copy of 'Just Jugs' tossed onto his desk amidst a messy pile of paperwork that looked to be gathering dust. His shaver rested on the filing cabinet, a glass of whiskey on the wooden desk in front of his familiar chair... but the person in the chair wasn't Gene himself.

He stared in disbelief at the familiar figure, his heart hammering in his chest as the slight-looking male glanced at him, grinning with good humour as he downed the whiskey at his side before standing up, walking around the desk with his familiar gait. Gene could only stare, gulping and sweating as Sam settled himself on the desk itself, his arms crossed, the leather of his jacket creaking slightly as he grinned.

"Alright, Guv?" He asked, still grinning.

Gene said nothing, still aghast with confusion, disbelief and utter terror.

"You're tripping out, Gene," Sam said softly, and Gene flinched, his eyebrows knitting together on his forehead as his old friend spoke, the familiar mannerisms so perfectly executed, which only served to contrast even further against the slight lilt to his voice that was so un-Sam, so out of character, so utterly wrong... "You're seeing things that aren't there."

"Sam, I-"

"Polly.." he murmured softly. "Bolly..." He pursed his lips, as he went on, voice still soft as he seemed to weigh up invisible objects in either hand, alternating them up and down with a look of extreme concentration plastered across his features. "Bolly... Polly... Bolly... Polly... Bolly..."

"Stop it!" Gene said quietly, his eyebrows knitting together as he felt his fists clench in his pockets; Sam glanced up, grinning so familiarly that for a moment, Gene thought he'd simply misread what Sam had been saying before.

"I'm gunna help you out, Guv," Sam smiled warmly, "just like always."

Gene felt himself sigh with relief, the tension in his shoulders dissipating as he watched Sam come towards him, felt the familiar hand clamp down on his arm with another lopsided grin. There were a few moments of quiet before he spoke, and his frown was evident as he did so, creasing his forehead into several lines. "You thought she was Alex," Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief, hand still on Gene's arm. His eyes darted up, flashing accusingly as he added; "they didn't even look the same!"

"It was the name," Gene muttered uselessly, feeling his throat flutter with nerves and guilt. "I just-"

"Curls, eyes, hands; Polly!" Sam's eyes flashed wickedly. " Curls, eyes, hands; Bolly."

He was weighing his hands up again, his eyes crinkled with confusion as his vicious grin seemed to retreat, as it was replaced with a boyish look of incomprehension... "But she's not Alex..."

"I didn't mean to do it..." Gene said weakly, feeling utterly useless, juvenile, like a little boy caught stealing from the biscuit tin...

And then Sam started talking, started chanting and rhyming in a voice that was not his own, his grin returning, crazed and maddened as his tongue flicked out at his lips; "Sugar and spice and all things nice!" He chanted. "An apple a day keeps the Doctor away! Sugar and spice and all things nice! An apple a day keeps the Doctor away! Sugar and spice and all things nice! An apple a..."

The words went on, a mantra of playground rhymes that Gene had not heard in years, and before his eyes flashed images of Alex, her scent twining into his nostrils, teasing him with that exotic hint of cinnamon and sweetness that caused him to groan with desire. And then there was Polly, her hair smelling of sickly sweet fruit, Marion's warning ringing in his ears as his mouth devoured Polly's, pleading for himself to live, to be alive, to forget, to stay well...

"Stop it," Gene murmured weakly, covering his ears in vain.

There was teasing and taunting in Sam's voice now, a laughing, keening note that made Gene's chest ache with pain. "An apple a day keeps the Doctor away! Sugar and spice and all things nice! An apple a day keeps the Doctor away! Sugar and spice..."

"Stop it!" Gene shouted, the sound of Sam's voice eerie and echoing through his mind, even as he clamped his hands tighter against his ears.

"... all things nice! An apple a day keeps the Doctor away! Sugar and spice and all things nice! An apple a day..."

"STOP!" Gene sobbed, and he could feel the suppressed child in his chest clawing for escape, sobbing for silence, for quiet, for undisturbed sleep, even as the mantra went on and on, echoing through his brain as he doubled over in hopeless fury and pain, knees colliding with the floor as he collapsed helplessly.

"...apple a day keeps the Doctor away! Sugar and spice and all things nice! An apple a day keeps the Doctor away!"

And then it stopped, suddenly, and with a start Gene glanced up, seeing Sam sat there cross-legged on the desk, an apple in one hand, a cinnamon stick in the other, looking thoughtfully at either item in turn.

"Spice," Sam murmured, sniffing the cinnamon suspiciously. "Apple," he added, thumbing the skin of the shining red fruit. "What's it going to be, Gene?" he asked, looking up questioningly. "Fruit? Spice? Fruit? Spice? Fruit?" He raised an eyebrow, his eyes dancing as he held both out towards him.

"Spice?" He murmured, teasing the stick of cinnamon below Gene's nose; the scent was Alex, completely and utterly, and his knees weakened hopelessly before it was gone, replaced by Polly's sickly sweet perfume wafting under his nose. "Apple?" Sam asked.

Gene glanced up, seeing the familiar eyes and gulping, before reaching nervously towards the cinnamon stick. His fingers closed around it, and a smirk settled on Sam's lips.

"Bang!" He whispered, grinning as Gene flinched backwards, hands tight on the stick of spice in his hand, even as Sam's cackling laughter, so uncharacteristic and bitterly painful, echoed horribly through the familiar room. "Poor little Genie!"

As Gene looked up, Sam's eyes flashed, his smile wicked and evil as he whispered, "the Doctor's coming for you."

----

Gene flew upright with a start, the sheets stuck to his body, his shirt clinging to his skin, folded and creased with sweat. He was shivering with cold, burning up with heat, his head both pounding and numb as he gasped for breath, searching for anything in the darkened room that would offer him reassurance, composure, calm... He was ragged with pain as the air tore into his lungs, flooding him with bittersweet pain and longing that he hadn't experienced in well over a year.

It was the first time he'd truly dreamt of Sam since he'd met Alex; until she'd arrived on the scene, his nights were plagued by dark spectres of fear and anger, by images of Sam drowning, begging for help as the last bubble of oxygen escaped from his lips, as it flew up towards the surface and popped, even as he sank deeper and deeper into the chasm of darkness at the bottom of the river, trapped and incapable, his eyes pleading, hands scrabbling upwards, clawing at the water in a vain attempt to pull himself up...

It had been the same dream every night, always the same; Gene would stare, attempt to reach out, to clasp Sam's hand and drag him to the surface and kick the shit out of him for being such a tosser and ruining his coat... A few times, his head had allowed him that luxury, to drag the skinny tosser from the water and start screaming blue bloody murder at him, only to realize it was too late, only for the little colour that was left to drain from Sam's skin, and for his body to begin wasting away, disappearing into the water sodden mud until there was nothing left at all, and his own shock was so pronounced that all he could do was stumble away, stumble blindly backwards, his whole body shaking and quivering...

He'd thought they'd stopped.

He'd thought he wouldn't have to endure those dreams again.

Of course, they still plagued his mind, still tormented him, teased him, caused him immense pain when he was draped over his sofa with his brain halfway between awake and unconscious, but they weren't as vivid through the haze of alcohol, dimmed and blurred against his vision, and he'd found himself welcoming the mimicked versions, because they were bearable, and there was none of the strength of feeling and colour that had rocked his mind and tortured his insides for months on end...

But now there was this.

In some ways, he thought it was worse; at least before, Gene had directed hatred at himself, and seen nothing but pleading in Sam's eyes, seen no mimic or puppet of Sam's actions, only plain, open fear of death, of the chasm that lay beyond the line... Gene didn't know now what to make of the whole thing; the laughter in Sam's gaze had felt like a knife through the chest, his bitter disappointment cutting right through Gene and twisting in his chest with a jerk. There had been no friendship, no liking, no plea for understanding, just bitter, plain, disappointed disgust. The voice wasn't even Sam's; it was distorted, shrewd, as Alex's had been, as Alice Tibbett's voice must also have been, because none of them had voices of such terrifying beauty, none of them were so frighteningly aged and yet simultaneously immortal...

He ached, longing for comfort, for understanding, for clarity and context... but there was none. Sam's words rang in his ears, teasing, lilting, bouncing with that happy tone that only children in the playground had ever possessed, that only people with no care, no worries, no life experience could execute so teasingly, so uncaringly... The fact of the matter was, he knew they worked, knew they reflected his feelings so perfectly that he felt ill; Alex was perfect, sweet, fiery, beautiful and complex, but Polly was the safe bet- all that Polly stood for, had been a safe bet.

Because Polly was not hooked up to a machine, unmoving and silent; Polly was alive, young, full of youth and vigour that he wanted, that he craved... but he wanted Alex. He needed her. And whether she was sleeping or awake it didn't matter, because he couldn't escape her, even when he should have been concentrating on the woman he'd been kissing, on the way her hands felt in his hair and on his chest. All he'd been interested in was the fact that Alex's warrant card felt like it was on fire in his pocket, bursting into flame against his heart, feeling like a burning betrayal even though she had no claim on him, even though she should have no sway over who he saw or what he did with them...

Marion's words might well have been spoken with wisdom and experience, but he couldn't stop the burning feeling in the very pit of his stomach that said she was wrong, that he couldn't make anything out of his life without Alex.

He was anger, and bitter, resentful and distressed, but he couldn't help it; Marion didn't understand. She had been married to her husband, been in love with him, and he'd known it. She'd spent years in his arms, enjoying the finer things in life, being able to openly treasure those moments that had made her whole, made her heart ache with happiness...

The problem was that Gene hadn't been able to. He'd treasured their shared moments in Luigi's, whispered conversations and smiles across the office, but he'd never been able to openly proclaim how much they meant to him, to tell her that she was important, special and everything to him. She'd never know unless he stayed by her side and continued to visit her. They might tell him she could hear his words, but where was the proof? A few dippy arseholes woke up and said they'd heard something, someone, a friend or a loved one calling them back... but did they remember the small snatches of conversation? Could they recall the little silences and the pressure of another hand pressed into theirs? Was there any proof, if he were to tell her now how much she meant, how much he needed her, that if she woke up, she'd remember it? Or would it be wasted? Would she simply miss his words and hear the last remorseful sigh as he gave into the inevitable fact that today wouldn't be the day she woke up? And if she could hear him, could she understand a word he was saying, or comprehend it on any level? With the amount of drugs they were pumping into her body, he wouldn't be surprised if 'I miss you' was misconstrued as a whole-hearted attempt at singing the National Anthem, complete with brass band and orchestra.

That was what Marion couldn't understand, as much as she might try; she'd had years of demonstrating the depth of her feeling towards her husband, Frank, but Gene hadn't even begun to show Alex the true extent of meaning she had instilled within his life. He had forsaken chance after chance to tell her, pushing away the bugging, nagging voice in his head when an opportunity presented itself, and cursing both himself and others when the moment slipped through his fingers, and now she was out of reach, possibly forever, and the idea that she might wake up for any brief moment without him was heart-breakingly painful. It should have been easy to walk away, knowing that he had no commitments, no ties to her in any way, shape or form... but it wasn't. Perhaps if the circumstances were different-

He stopped himself, thumping his hand against the pillow with force as he let out an angry growl of frustration, swinging himself from the bed, his body quivering as he pulled off his clothes and changed into the fresh set that he had left in the laundry bag on the chair.

He should have been bothered, he told himself, that he was treating the flat as his own, when it's real owner was however far away, in a questionable and fragile state of mind, possibly lost in the dark recesses of thought that plagued her brain, but he couldn't bring himself to it; she had never turned him away... Except for that fateful day, he considered, with her explanation about the future and guns and whatever else she had pulled on him- but it didn't matter.

She had never yelled, never argued her rank and never professed to hate him, whatever he might have read into that tape. He told himself that she wouldn't have left him alone in this state of despair, although, he thought briefly, he might well have been forced to sleep on the sofa, and of course, if she were there to offer him her unwavering support, he wouldn't be in this whole mess in the first place. He was on his way to the door when he noticed the answer phone light flashing red in the dark of the living room, and after frowning in confusion for several moments, he moved closer, pressing the play button and settling himself on the arm of the sofa, lighting a cigarette with fingers that shook.

"Guv?" It was Chris' voice, sounding utterly bemused and dumbfounded as he spoke, with a loud giggling sound in the background which Gene could only assume to be Shaz. "Ray said you'd be at DI Drake's place... Shaz wanted me to tell yer- well... we were gunna wait, except... we dunno when she'll wake up, Guv..." Gene stared at the black box as he listened, his cigarette burning away in his hand as he sat there, mind spinning as Chris continued, sounding nervous and uncertain the more he progressed with his words. "It's just... well... we're gunna get married, Guv... next month... I dunno- I just-" Chris paused, and then he sighed, and Gene noticed that the joyous giggling in the background had stopped. "Sorry, Guv..." he went on, his voice softening. "I know yer want 'er awake, but-... Sorry..."

There was a click, and the message ended, but Gene could only continue to stare blindly at the little box as the statement hit him with more profound impact than he could possibly have expected. The unbearable knowledge that life was moving on, that those close to both he and Alex were moving ahead to go about with their lives, hurt more than he'd predicted.

He knew he shouldn't have been surprised by it all; Chris and Shaz's engagement had been indisputable, their wedding plans thrown out easily after Chris' brief stint of having cold feet about stepping into the unknown plains of marriage, but there was no denying that, despite Shaz's obvious desire to have Alex at the wedding if at all possible, she couldn't be expected to put her life on hold in the vague hope that her boss might be able to attend.

He shouldn't be angry, he told himself. He should be pleased for them; it didn't matter that his own marriage had gone to shit and his whole opinion on the matter had been blasted to oblivion as he labelled it with such negativities as 'imprisonment' and 'resentment'. The fact was, there was no denying that both Shaz and Chris were happy – he should have been pleased for them, pleased that they had a chance to be together and make a good go of the whole thing, in a way that he had never managed due to his own actions during the twenty or so years of marriage in which he had allowed his opinions to be contorted and swayed.

He should have rung back and offered his congratulations, should have wished them well and told them to be happy, to look after one another and not shag each other out too badly on the honeymoon... but he couldn't bring himself to.

He stood up, leaving the flat hurriedly as he tried to collect himself, to stop the swell of anger in his chest.

They were entitled to go on living, he told himself. It wasn't his place to stop them, or to wish that they would stop themselves; Alex was their DI, nothing more. He knew that, didn't he? They were colleagues more so than friends, and much as it might have been desirable to have the whole team present, it wasn't like Alex was a key to the celebrations, was it? Perhaps if she were the Matron of Honour, he would have been within his rights to expect the wedding to be held off a little longer, at least if they were claiming that Alex was the brides closest friend, or maybe the sister of either party or-

He stopped himself as he stepped into the cool night air, closing his eyes briefly as he rested his back against the wall. He shouldn't be angry, he told himself. Alex would be pleased, and surely he should be too? But Alex was unconscious, and would probably have thought Pavarotti dancing around a metal pole was the epitome of beauty at the current moment in time, and he couldn't deny that part of him was roiling with unbidden anger at the apparent lack of faith his team were showing; yes, he knew she wasn't showing signs of improvement, but then, neither were Man City, and he wasn't about to give up his faith in them.

With a sigh, he heaved himself away from the wall, his hand reaching into his overcoat and drawing out cigarette and lighter before he slid into the familiar front seat of the Quattro, listening with relish as the engine roared into life and purred with perfection as he drew out of the parking space.

---

Marion was on duty, and for a few moments, Gene had to stop, freezing in place when her eyes met his, seeing the worry and doubt in her gaze as she allowed a timid smile to grace his lips. He nodded his head in recognition, and then glanced towards Alex's door nervously. "Can I?"

"Visiting hours are over, Gene," she said sympathetically.

Gene ground his teeth looking at the wall as he managed to grind out his retort, feeling the bitterness swelling up as he did so. "It's not like it matters when I come or not," he said, cracking his knuckles in his pocket and seeing her shake her head sadly as he went on. "She's asleep twenty-four seven fer Christ's sake- she ain't exactly gunna tell me to wait till a more respectable hour, is she?"

"It's hospital protocol, Gene, I don't think-"

"I don't give two flying blue testicles whether its 'protocol'! She's in a fricking coma! She's not exactly gunna notice whether it's two in the morning or not!"

Marion sighed, her voice sad as she spoke again, "Gene, this isn't good for you! You'll drive yourself-"

He didn't hear the rest as he felt something snap in his chest, blind rage causing him to slam his fist onto the receptionists desk, feeling the familiar, and yet strangely foreign feeling of losing control, of being completely at sea, adrift from himself as he spoke angrily, spit flying from his mouth as he clenched his fists so hard against the urge to thump that his knuckles cracked and his blunt nails pierced his skin.

"Not good for me?" He snapped, clenching and unclenching his fist as he attempted to distract himself from the overwhelming anger rising up in his stomach, flames of blind fury flickering at the back of his throat. "Does it look like staying away is doing me any bloody good at all? Just let me see her, fer fucks sake!"

"Gene, I really don't-!"

"Don't what?" He retorted, slamming his fist back down on the desk and seeing the pens shudder with the force of it atop the table itself. "Why are you so bothered, Marion, that I want to see my DI? 'cause as far as I can see, the conked out bloke next door gets a visit from his Missus everyday, an' you ain't said two shit's to 'er about slingin' the hook! So why me, 'ey? What is it to you?"

"Gene, I really think that you should-"

"I ain't buggering off!" He growled, narrowing his eyes.

"No, Gene," she whispered, "I know that- but do you realize that you could be wasting your life on a woman who might not even return your feelings? She could wake up – a week from now, a month, a year, twenty... She could wake up and not feel a shred of that emotion for you... do you really want to put yourself through that? Have you even considered the fact that maybe, just maybe, she won't even-?"

"When she wakes up, I don't even know if she'll want to look at me! You think I ain't thought of that?" Gene laughed bitterly, shaking his head with disbelief. "You think I ain't worried about it? Think I ain't thought about the fact she might just lamp me in the face the second I open me trap?"

"Then why are you putting yourself through this?" Marion's voice was soft as she spoke, full of aching sympathy that only furthered his anger and despise as the irrationality of her question seemed to sink in.

"Because I don't care!" He snapped, lashing out his foot against the wall in an attempt to vent his frustration. "You think I can just bugger off an' leave 'cause she's unconscious? You of all people know that's complete and utter bollucks! Just because she doesn't bloody know about it ain't gunna make it any bloody easier for me!" He fell away, his own tirade shocking him as he gulped down the nagging lump within his throat, running a hand through his hair as he avoided eye contact, his final addition soft and low, barely audible, and Marion had to strain her ears to hear it. "I can't pretend everything's alright an' bugger off like it ain't happened, Mar- I 'ave to live with it, whether I'm 'ere or not... an' unless I'm 'ere, I'm just gettin' pissed and tryin' to shag some floozy who looks like 'er..." He gulped, looking up into Marion's eyes and seeing her shoulders sag with sympathy as she walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't love a shell, Gene," she murmured.

He glanced at her, his eyes glimmering in the dim light of the room. "I don't," he replied, voice quiet and uncertain. "An' she ain't a shell..." he waited a moment, glancing down the corridor and into the darkened rooms before whispering, "can I see 'er?"

Marion could only nod, her hand falling from his shoulder as she allowed him to walk away, tears of sympathy and knowledge in her eyes, going unseen as Gene pushed his way into Alex's room, walking over within the dark to click on the bedside lamp, watching as her face came into view, glowing warmly in the orange lamp light as he sank into the chair, looking at her wistfully, feeling the pain in his stomach treble at the sight of her.

"Bolly..." he whispered, tracing a finger down her cheek shakily. He sighed, shuffling his chair closer and lifting her hand into his own. "Christ, Bols, I'm sorry..."

He realized then, sat there, looking at her perfect and incontestable beauty, that there should never have been any doubt about his ability to go through with the brief encounter with Polly at the bar; she couldn't compare. Though he had thought he had seen similarities between the pair, there was nothing, and it was only the sound of her name -so similar to the endearing nickname he had bestowed upon Alex from the first day they had met, so very easy to confuse when his eyes were closed and he was blocking out all reasonable thought – that had even convinced him to try. Nothing could have compared. He suspected that Brit Ekland herself could have walked in at that moment and Gene's head would only be turned for a moment, his gaze always drifting back to the woman in the bed, her eyes closed, her hair fanned behind her head, her lips parted in a slight pout as she lay there, unknowing before him...

He held her hand in his own, feeling the slender length of her fingers, seeing the slightly dry skin of her palms and noting each ridge and line in her flesh, committing it to memory, ingraining it on the very centre of his brain, burned into his mind's eye with hot rods of iron that made her completely irreplaceable... He couldn't stay away from her, couldn't be without her; in that, his certainty was absolute.

For the best part of an hour, he said nothing, staring at her blank face, listening to the pulse of her heart machine and the regulation of her breathing.

Occasionally, his hand became sweaty, and he would briefly disentangle his fingers from hers, wiping the clammy hand against his trousers before returning it to her own, squeezing reassuringly as he settled back into place.

He said nothing, and he did nothing. The only thing he saw was her; he didn't notice Marion poking her head around the door at regular intervals, and nor did he realize that the room was slowly becoming lighter, less grey, with thin rays of light breaking through the small crack in the curtains and falling on her face, ousting the orange glow from the bedside lamp as Gene's thoughts wandered, his mind consumed with the sight of her, the feel of her hand, the thought of her voice... He drifted months back, to a heated, boiling, sweaty room, where Alex had curled into his chest and stroked his delicate gold chain with fingers that had trembled, her hot, heavy breath brushing his neck and his chest as she showed him, for the first time, that she could be vulnerable, too. He remembered the hitch of her breath, the flush of her skin against his, and the fear in her voice as she'd whispered his name... he wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms once more, to capture her wandering hand on his chest, hold it close against his pounding heart and turn his head those few inches to the right to press his lips to her forehead...

He sighed, his eyes heavy as he looked at her, sleep tugging at their lids like small weights, pulling them to a close, drawing him into a deep slumber that felt both foreign and familiar as it wrapped itself around him, lulling him into the silent darkness with warmth and gentleness, its embrace welcoming and tender.

---

When Gene awoke, it was to find his head resting gently on Alex's stomach, his cheek resting on the warm fabric covering it, with his nose nuzzled gently into the clean blanket. His left arm was draped protectively across her waist, resting on the opposite side of the bed, his fingers absently tracing patterns in her palm as he became aware of her again, both shocked and warmed to find himself so well rested, to feel her hand resting easily against his own without signs of discontent. His right hand was tangled securely with her left, fingers twined around hers and palm aligning without a trace of awkwardness. He blinked, lazily lifting his head a few inches and looking at her through soft, slightly blurred eyes. He vaguely drew himself up, careful to lift his left hand as he moved his arm away from her, though his other hand kept a firm hold, thumb tracing light patterns and images into the warm skin, half-heartedly attempting to push away the wave of longing that swept over him at the simple knowledge that he had just woken up with Alex Drake.

It wasn't a complete novelty, really, he supposed. In hindsight, he'd woken up with her in the office, his hand barely an inch from hers, and he'd spent numerous nights on her sofa with the knowledge that she was next door. The difference was, he supposed, that he wasn't hungover, and he wasn't working... despite the obvious fact that she was unconscious and oblivious, and therefore she might well have pushed him away were the circumstances to differ in that obliquely plain factor, he felt something innately calming and fitting about waking beside her, and the fact that, for the first time since the shooting he had slept without nightmares, and without cold sweats. His mouth twitched as he looked at her, settling himself back in the wicker chair with his hand in hers.

The whole novelty of this situation should have worn off by now, he realized. Watching her sleep should only enchant and enthral him for so long, but somehow, even when he had seen her do nothing but rest for almost three months, the sight of her so peaceful and calm did wonderful things to him, cooling his anger and outward bitterness for these wonderful moments where he could simply watch her... He'd never been interested in watching someone sleep before; with his former wife, he'd always been much more interested in rousing her from slumber for a quick fumble, often voicing his complaints if and when she turned over and went back to sleep. In the affairs that had passed by since then, there was little other than sex involved, and it had never been him that had offered an insightful comment into 'the future'. The idea of watching someone sleep had held little appeal prior to Alex's appearance- he'd even have gone so far as to say he found it creepy, poncy, nancy- the sort of thing Sam would have done; now he couldn't seem to get enough of it.

A glance towards the clock on the other side of the room showed that he had only an hour before he had to be at work, and the knowledge that he was yet to shower and eat was nagging insistently at the back of his mind, and despite the fact he didn't want to leave, Gene knew he couldn't stay much longer. With a sigh, he picked up her hand in both of his, holding it firmly as he looked at her face, glancing briefly out into the corridor before leaning forwards, his lips coming to rest an inch from her ear as he whispered to her, voice both soft and gentle, whilst simultaneously gruff and throaty.

"Best wake up soon, Bols, yer daft tart; I don't fancy walkin' into that church without yer... Dancin' with Raymondo just ain't the same." With soft lips, he pressed his mouth to the base of her ear, feeling his own warm breath as it hit her skin and bounced back at him. "Miss yer, Bolly," he murmured, before pulling away.

----

Mage of the Heart