A/N: Firstly, thank you so very much for all the lovely comments I received for my previous Ashes to Ashes story, I don't think I've ever had such plentiful and positive reviews!
Not too keen on this, but I thought I might as well post it as I always like to hear how I can improve. Takes place after episode 6. Hope you enjoy. :o)
This story contains strong language.
They were sat in the corner of the bar, some cheap run down place he'd decided to stumble across. Luigi's was out of the question of course, so he'd chosen this one on a whim. It was a dark secluded little velvet alcove, where they were sitting, the smoke and sweat and darkness sealing them in, away from the few people left in here. He was starting to feel slightly suffocated, now he thought about it. It was most likely midnight. He couldn't remember why he was here anymore.
He didn't want to remember.
Taking another long swig of beer, he tried to focus his drunken gaze on the woman in front of him. Pretty stunning, she was, he thought casually. It was just a fact. Nothing to dwell on. Blond hair. Big eyes. Big tits. Lovely long legs. He gave them another glance. Yes, she'd do nicely.
And she was outstandingly drunk. Everything he looked for in a woman. Marvelous.
Except he didn't want to be here.
What was her name again?
He gazed on as she took a drag from her cigarette, her long nails painted a bright, blaring red, and saw her shiny crimson lips pout as she let out a trail of smoke. Her face was caked in makeup, her eyes drowning in black, her hair so drenched in spray he was sure she was poisoned.
She caught his eye and smirked.
"So then, inspector- "
"Detective…Chief…Inspector…" he slurred, irritated.
"Gene." She said, smiling smugly and leaning a little closer to him across the table. "How'd you wind up 'ere then?"
Her voice was a whine, he noticed, her cockney drawl like nails down a blackboard.
He had another swig of his drink.
"I'm wond'rin' that me'self." He muttered, shifting in his seat slightly.
She let out a drunken snort and bit her lip and what she obviously thought was a sexy gesture. He eyed her up and down quickly, wondering briefly exactly how he'd ended up here, drunk, miserable and slightly horny, which, from experience, was rarely good. At best he'd end up shagging her and crawling back home when it was still dark. At worst he'd wake up tomorrow morning slumped outside the back door of this very bar.
Katherine. That was her name, thank fuck for that.
"You look rough, darlin'" she slurred, running her fingers across his hand and looking at him from underneath her dark lashes, still smirking. "Bad day?"
The days events flashed in his head quickly, again. Again and again, all day, all evening. He shuddered, disturbed, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he willed away.
"You don't know the 'alf of it, love." He murmured quietly, staring into the depths of his drink before taking another long swig and slamming the glass back down.
She giggled stupidly at him. Christ almighty. Where had he picked this one up? He was struggling to remember, sighing miserably as his vision blurred slightly, seeing a complete mess of red and leopard print before him.
He felt her foot run up his leg. It depressed him and turned him on in equal measures.
"I'm sure I could 'elp." She said, licking her lips and leaning ever closer, her foot inching up higher. He cleared his throat, staring into her eyes that were now inches away from his own.
"Really." he said skeptically, sighing again.
Smirking seductively, she let out a deep breath, the stench of smoke and booze hitting him powerfully. And another smell, the smell that had drawn him in in the first place.
That perfume…
He didn't want to think about her though. That was the reason he'd dragged himself here, wasn't it? Jesus, he'd just about had it was all this. He didn't think he'd hated anything more in his life; more than the scum he locked away, more than his ex-wife, more than that stupid prat, Tyler. He hated her with a passion so strong and burning inside he thought he might burst. If he could have his way, he'd completely wipe her from his memory, get her out if his head and out of his life for good. He was sick of his thoughts always leading to her, without fail, no matter what he was doing or saying or smoking. It was always there, in the back of his mind, suddenly slammed to the front in all it's glory…her on the bonnet of his car, bent over his desk, draped in his arms, tied up inside a meat locker-
That last thought made him feel sick again. In his gut, deep down, sending chills everywhere else.
"Oi!"
His head snapped up and he was dragged back into this cruel reality, realising he'd closed his eyes. The woman…Kat?…was stood now, leaning over the table and giving him a rather good view down her top. He tried to block out any other thoughts, shut down his head and just get on with this.
Christ, he needed to get on with this.
He needed to get her the fuck out of his head in the only way he knew how.
"You sure you know what you're doin'?" he said in a low gravely voice, asking her, asking himself. He breathed it all in again, that all to familiar scent tipping him over the edge.
She smiled and pulled away, her fingers on his tie slowly taking him with her. Quickly finishing his pint, he stood and grabbed his coat, following her out the door.
This is too bloody easy he thought as they stumbled into his flat, their lips colliding with a brutal force and their bodies entangled. He didn't even bother dragging her to the bed and simply pressed her up against the nearest wall aggressively, running his hands up her sides and pushing off her coat.
She let out a breathless laugh.
"Blimey, Gene-"
"Shut up." He snapped, taking her mouth again, unable to stand her voice, the taste of alcohol and smoke and make-up on her making him feel dizzy. He couldn't feel anything else around him, too lost, too mad. He buried his face in her neck, that smell driving him wild, his eyes closing, and he ended up seeing it all again, feeling it all a thousand times over, her image burnt behind his eyelids. He groaned, unable to help himself, feeling slightly nauseous, feeling high, trying to force her out of his head again, knowing this effort to be futile.
For fuck's sake…
It was all getting out of hand, he thought. He couldn't concentrate at work anymore, couldn't focus, couldn't aim or shoot or beat the shit out of someone without her judgmental, gorgeous eyes boring into his head. What the hell was wrong with him?…no, there was nothing wrong with him, it was her. She was the one causing all these problems, problems that didn't even exist, problems he didn't want to deal with, waltzing in, fucking up his work and life and tottering out again every day on those perfect pins, putting on her slap and dancing and drinking like she didn't have a bloody care in the world-
Christ, he was livid. How dare she? How bloody dare she? He didn't need this shit. He certainly didn't need her in his office, in his bar, in his life, in his every waking thought, in his fucking dreams no less.
He let out an enraged kind of growl, breathing her in. That perfume was invading every sense in him, drowning him, he could hardly breath as he kissed her, devoured her.
Her, her, her, over and over again, flashing like lightning in his head, her on the bonnet of his car, bent over his desk, draped in his arms, leaning in as the light flickered out…
What would you do, Gene...last few seconds on earth? Anything you want. Right now.
He moaned, out of control, biting down on her neck-
"You what?"
It was a breathless exclamation, a high pitched, whine that caused him to lift his head up, resurfacing, and he opened his eyes to see a stranger in front of him. A stranger whose name he couldn't remember for the life on him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted slightly in confusion but still a wild desire in her eyes.
He blinked slowly, as if in a daze.
"What?" he muttered, out of breath himself, staring intently at her, slowly registering that the woman in his arms wasn't… she wasn't who he'd thought it was. His thoughts…he thought…no he wasconvinced-
"You just said Bolly." The girl said, winding her fingers through his hair and pressing herself closer to him, trying to continue what he'd started.
He swallowed.
Shit.
He stood there motionless, simply staring at her, his eyelids drooping, his head spinning. Christ, he felt ill. Disgusted. This…this was all surreal…it wasn't right…he'd closed his eyes and slipped into some kind of insanity, closed his eyes for one second and was lost for a lifetime…
He pulled away, swaying slightly in his still drunken state, but she held onto his tie. Everything around him seemed a blur, wrong, wrong…this was all fucking wrong…
"Go 'ome…" he murmured, wanting to get as far from her as possible, placing his hand on her shoulder in a pathetic attempt to push her away, any feeling left in him turning stale, his stomach churning…you fucking stupid old fool…
She simply laughed and tried to drag him back towards her, lifting her leg-
"I said go home." He said through gritted teeth, pushing her more forcefully and breaking free of her grasp. He staggered slightly before leaning on the kitchen counter, his head spinning.
"Hey!" the woman yelled. Who was she? She was doing his head in whoever the bloody hell she was. "What the fuck's wrong wi'ya?"
He pressed his thumb and finger to his temple in an effort to regain some sanity, squeezing his eyes shut, only slightly aware that he was swaying and somewhat concerned that he might pass out.
He could hear her coming towards him again, each step sending a new wave of sickness through his head, a swirling mix of booze and smoke and that fucking perfume, that sodding potion that had left him here, famished, dying to taste it again yet knowing in a twisted way he'd never really had it to begin with.
He began to contemplate the possibility that he was losing his mind, but quickly banished the thought. His own words from yesterday echoed disturbingly in his head.
At least he knew when to call it a day!
Call it a day…maybe he should of done the day she showed up.
"Loosen up sweet'art." was suddenly whispered in his ear, sending a shiver down his spine that did nothing whatsoever to loosen him up. It just made him more sickened, made her more repulsive, just skin and bones, another worthless tart who didn't mean anything now and she never would.
None of them meant anything.
"Get out of 'ere…"he said under his breath, keeping his eyes closed, trying to control himself, misery and alcohol and God knows what else worming away through his body…
He felt her bony fingers curl around his waist and lower- and his eyes snapped open. Something in him screamed in anger, in agony, his head pounding, when he shattered and grabbed her wrist, seeing black, seeing red, seeing nothing but his own rage.
"I said get out! Get the fuck out o' my 'ome!"
He could hear the drunken slur in his voice and it angered him further, his own weakness staring him in the face like a pathetic spectre. Out of control, ignoring her yelps and moans, he simply grabbed the woman's wrist, dragging her towards the door and throwing her out like the trash that she was.
"You fucking dick!" she screamed and he simply slammed the door in her face, the crash sending a sharp stab of pain to his head "You stupid fucking tosser! "
Her cries were muffled slightly by the thin walls but he didn't listen, nothing was adding up, all distorted and hollow in his head. It was a blur, a drunken, nightmarish mess, the state he was in. A shameful, worthless shadow of the man he was supposed to be, the man he bloody was. He didn't move for a moment, his head lent against the door, couldn't move even if he'd wanted to it seemed, the alcohol having some sort of numbing effect. Thump, thump, thump, thump, the sound of his heart pumping his blood to his head, and he pounded his fist against the door in rage, ignoring the slight pain it sent up his arm.
It was quiet in the hallway now and he presumed she'd left. Either that or she'd passed out, and he really didn't care which.
Exhausted, he collapsed on the sofa, letting his head fall backwards.
Thump, thump, thump.
Nothing made sense anymore. Next thing he knew he wouldn't be able to breathe without her stopping him, let alone have a decent fuck, a fuck which he desperately needed. And he had it! It was right there in front of him and his head took a fantastic opportunity to control his body for once. Jesus Christ. Not so bloody easy after all, not when all he could see was her, always her, her on the bonnet of his car, bent over his desk, draped in his arms, leaning in as the light flickered out, her, her, her.
There she was again, the bitch, lying before him, out cold, no life left in her. Nothing but pale skin, a broken frame, her gorgeous face expressionless, dead, dead, and he was back in that desperate moment suddenly, just this morning, thumping away, trying to get her back, please God. He was reliving it, he realised as his eyes clamped shut, the sheer terror of that moment, her lifeless form haunting him, how beautiful she'd looked. And this part he remembered vividly, the thought of losing her. The thought of letting her slip through his fingers, gone for good, dead, dead, dead-
"Get the fuck out of my head!"
He buried his head in the palms of his hands, refusing to acknowledge that they were trembling, and without thinking, without knowing what he was doing, he stood up in blind fury, stumbled slightly, dragged his coat behind him and stormed out.
Christ, he was drunk.
That was the only logical explanation.
So drunk and so tired he couldn't hold himself up, leaning against the door frame on his side like some kind of wounded animal. He didn't know what time it was, only that it was gone midnight, dark and deadly, caught in those few hours when anything has the potential of happening. No memory or light, just stupid people doing stupid things because they can't wait till morning, can't wait till they are thinking straight, too caught in the moment.
Bloody hell. He was even thinking like her now.
Patiently he waited, summoning the strength to knock and taking long, drawn out breaths, his head ache still not vanishing. He was too old for this. Too old to be waiting outside a pretty girl's door in the dead of night, too tired to be chasing a piece of skirt he had no hope of claiming his own. What was the point? He'd lived long enough to know that being alone was most definitely the best thing for him.
Half of him wasn't expecting her to even answer the door, so when she finally did…
He let out a staggering breath he had no idea he'd even been holding.
There she was.
What was he suppose to gain from this?
Nothing.
He knew in his gut why he was here, why he'd stumbled all the way along the streets.
He just wanted to see her.
"Gene?"
He sighed, and just stared at her for a long moment, only slightly aware of the hopeless, tired expression on his face but he couldn't bring himself to care. She looked slightly shocked to see him stood there, yet somehow not surprised at all. Her hair was limp, loosely curled and he was sure he liked it more that way, her face clean of make-up, he was sure he liked that too. Observing her, taking in all those stupid worthless details like he did everyday, up close now, as close as he could get, actually seeing her for real, right there in front of him.
She had a black shirt on, obviously what she slept in, but he only gave that a quick glance, his gaze fixed on her eyes, her blood shot, tired eyes that showed no sign of having had rest, the light dimming in them.
She was staring at him, concerned.
"Gene?" she said again, taking him out of his daze slightly "What is it? What are you doing here?"
Her voice sounded sublime, he thought in a sudden giddy way that must have been because of the drink. Had he ever noticed that about her before? Probably not, her accent being that of a stuck up posh bird that he only really heard in all it's deafening glory when she was yelling at him. And now it sounded like perfection, he thought. Just bloody perfect.
He sighed again, knowing his reasoning to be absurdly pathetic. He watched as her lips moved up and down, slowly, alive. All those images appeared suddenly of her, flashing quickly behind his eyes, but none of them mattered, not when she was stood before him, talking, breathing, none of it even compared to the real thing, he thought, not even when she looked as drained and alone and miserable as she did now.
"I…" he began, tiredness overwhelming him, his eyes remaining fixed on hers. "I just wan'ed to see if you were O.K."
He saw her swallow. Saw something in her break, her eyes shining.
And before he knew what was happening she'd flung her arms around his neck and was holding him as tightly as she could in a desperate, needy hug.
At first he didn't move, but eventually he brought his arms around her back and held her just as tightly, if not more so, and let out another breath. He couldn't tell if she was crying or not, but it didn't really matter because what he had in his arms right now was a broken woman. A woman who'd almost died too many times to count, a woman who he'd never stop fighting to save.
"Thank you." She murmured in his ear, a quiet, tearful voice, and he wasn't sure if she'd actually said it or not, if he was just making things up for her. It was thanks for so many things, but he couldn't remember them. He just sighed, tired, and buried his head in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, not even bothering to reply. Just content to hold her, out here in the hallway in the dead of night, knowing somehow that this was as good as it was going to get with her. He didn't care.
Last few seconds on earth. He decided then and there that this is exactly where he wanted to be. He'd regret that decision when he was sober, he thought.
They stood there for a long while in a comfortabe silence, bound together, and he didn't know if he'd be able to let her go. Her perfume, her scent, was trapping him there.