A/N: Here is the final chapter! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing and special thanks to cats-tale for early advice and reading. I was really nervous about posting this story, and I'm so grateful that you've all stuck with it despite the subject matter. I hope I've done it justice. Life has been insane for the past week or so with no relief in sight, so this chapter is very rushed, and it didn't get the attention I'd probably like. But I thought if I didn't write it now, I probably never would! And I did promise Gene and Alex and happy ending. I hope this will do.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

There was only the sound of the windshield wipers beating back and forth frantically against the driving rain.

After all that had happened, the plans she'd made, they had ended up here, wherever here was. Lost, hungry, short-tempered. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Things had been going well since that night he had stalked out of her flat a couple of weeks earlier. After he left, she had sat there in the sofa in a kind of numb shock.

He'll come back. He'll phone, she thought. He will.

But several hours later, long after she should have given up, she was still sitting there with her eyes darting back and forth between the door and the silent phone.

It was late. She was exhausted, feeling as if her limbs were made of lead. She lifted herself from the sofa and shuffled into her bedroom. It was then she caught sight of herself in the mirror there, half-dressed in her silky robe. She had sprayed herself with a new scent for him, at her wrists and behind her bare knees. She could smell it now.

She was a fool. Why would he want her? He would never want her, and for a moment, the pain of what had happened to her was as bright and raw as it had ever been.

She tore off the dressing gown as if it were burning her skin and pulled on the most shapeless pair of men's pyjamas she could find in her drawer. She buried herself in her bed, drained, numb, exhausted, and fell into a heavy sleep.

The clock read 3:14 when she heard the noise. Startled, she woke up easily, as she did now. There was a knocking, so low she could barely hear it. It could only be one person.

She crossed into the other room, and took a deep breath before opening the door. He passed in front of her without saying a word. When she turned to face him, he was standing in the middle of the floor, drenched, looking lost and alone. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes on the ground.

She wanted to rage at him, to tell him how badly he had hurt her, how she wanted him to go. But instead she lifted her arms and landed two blows on his shoulders with the heel of her hands.

"You stupid, stupid, man!"

She hit at him again. He didn't resist, and reeled backwards a step or two. She turned away from him, covered her face, and let out a ragged sob. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle, but she stepped away and turned to face him.

"Don't! Don't! Do you have any idea how important tonight was? Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to even get here?"

He could only look back at her across the wide distance between them. Finally, she crossed and sat on one end of the sofa. After a moment, he joined her, and they sat like fighters in opposing corners, their bodies almost throbbing with pain.

There was a long, empty silence. She cried, but he didn't dismiss her; he didn't tell her it would be all right. Finally, they talked. He bellowed and beat his chest, but in the end, she finally got him to agree to talk to someone, or at least he didn't dismiss the idea altogether.

But then when Monday came round, he was distant, distracted, and she thought she had lost him. It was that Wednesday morning when she came into CID, and he was nowhere to be found. Shaz shrugged when Alex asked where he was and reported that he had called earlier to say he would be on a course all day. "Current Trends in Interrogation Methods."

He came to the flat that evening, nonchalant, with a bottle of wine. He was unshaven and disheveled, but somehow more clear-eyed than she'd seen him in weeks.

"How was your course?" she asked him as he breezed past her into the kitchen.

"Fine. Grand. Good."

"Current Trends in Interrogation Methods. Sounds fascinating."

"Yeah, yeah. Was." He rummaged in her kitchen drawer for a bottle opener.

"Yes, I think I've heard about that one. Who's the lecturer? Inspector Morse, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Morse. Good man."

He crossed into the living room with the open bottle. She was standing in the middle of the room, arms folded across her chest, eyebrow lifted. He was silent for a moment. He looked away, knowing he'd been found out.

"I love you, Alex," he said quietly. "You know that don't you?"

She had imagined him saying it to her before, but now, actually hearing it, it had caught her off guard, and she could feel the tears spring to her eyes. "I know," she finally managed to say.

"Well, this is the part where you say, 'You're not half bad yourself, Gene,'"

"I love you, Gene. I do."

There was a beat. She could make out a flicker of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He passed her a glass.

"Good. That's sorted. I thought you were going to leave me hanging there, Bolls."

He slept there that night. They shared a bed, almost fully clothed, lying next to each other like spoons in a drawer. It was a statement more than anything.

I'm not going anywhere.

In some ways it was like starting over. They talked. She told him everything that had happened. It was important somehow. He listened without speaking, but she could see the emotion roiling beneath his surface. He talked to her, as much as he was comfortable doing. She knew there were things he would never share, but he wouldn't be Gene otherwise.

They tabled any discussion of sex for the time being. They went out for dinner, they stayed in for take-away and video night, but at the end of the evening it was becoming more difficult to leave it at just a kiss. For both of them.

Her therapist had suggested that their first time together be someplace neutral. Not in the flat that overlooked the alley. It all felt a bit clinical and calculating, but Alex had found a place, one of those old Tudor manors that had been turned into a luxury hotel, complete with a Michelin-starred chef on site, and Gene hadn't complained too much about it. They would make a week-end of it. A new start. It would be perfect.

Everything had started out well enough. They were making good time in the Quattro up the M25 to the M1. Then the skies had opened up and released a massive downpour on top of them. In the blinding rain, they had got off at the wrong junction and ended up on some rutted B road that was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. It was getting dark, they were both out of sorts and still no closer to their destination than they had been an hour earlier.

There was nothing but the flat countryside and miles and miles of plowed-under fields. Up ahead she could see the first landmark in fifteen minutes, the dim lights of a pub set back from the road.

"Pull in there. We can ask for directions."

"I'm not asking for directions!"

"What is it with men and directions? God, what I wouldn't give for my GPS right now," she muttered.

"GPS? What's that?"

"Handheld navigation system. It's…nevermind."

"I've got a handheld navigation system. It's called a bloody map."

But he pulled into the graveled car park of the King's Head pub, anyway. The sign was hanging from the pole out front by one hinge and twisted wildly in the wind and rain. They sprinted across the gravel but were both soaked when they stumbled through the front doors.

Inside was as shabby as she had expected, but it was warm, at least. The fake electric fireplace gave off some heat, and she huddled there as Gene conferred with the Landlord over the map he had spread out on the bar.

This wasn't the way she had imagined this week-end going. It was going to be perfect. Instead, they were lost and bickering.

But then she watched him there, dripping water all over the floor. He had done this for her, because it mattered to her. He would have been just as happy to spend the week-end at some student hotel in Earl's Court full of Australian backpackers.

And life wasn't perfect. She had learned that very hard lesson. Sometimes things didn't turn out as planned. Sometimes you never get where you want to go. And sometimes you do. It only takes you a little longer.

She watched his face as he nodded grimly and crossed back to her with the map.

"Right." He ran his finger over the map. "We take this road back to the M1 and then two junctions on. Then follow this road to here and then to the hotel."

"That won't get us there until near midnight, will it?"

He shook his head. "Other choice is to turn around and head back to London. We could be there in a couple of hours."

She looked out the window to where the rain was still driving down. "Sod it. Sign says they have rooms upstairs. Why can't we just stay here for the night?"

He sat down, rocking his head from side to side thoughtfully. "I reckon you can always book the room at the hotel for another week-end," he said folding the map.

"Don't think I want to anymore."

He looked at her with a frown, not quite comprehending. "Oh. Well. If you feel that way…" But then she held his eyes, not speaking, and he let out a small smile of understanding. "I'll bring in the bags."

They had dinner downstairs. Not exactly Michelin-starred quality, but it was acceptable and there was plenty of it. They talked in low voices as they sat in the glow of the roaring faux fire, listening to the sound of the rain.

They climbed the stairs silently, and she felt her heart skitter in anticipation. Their room was sparsely furnished, and the en suite that the Landlord had bragged about was a bathroom so small an adult could stand in the centre and touch all four walls. It wasn't perfect. It didn't need to be.

He closed the door behind them and tossed the key on the bedside table. A puff of dust blew up.

"Told you it wasn't much."

She could see in the corner where he had brought up the bags earlier.

"Well," she said, taking a few tentative steps into the room. "Cozy." She sat on the edge of the bed, and the springs creaked and sagged under her weight.

"We don't have to stay here, Bolls. We can go. I'll tell the Landlord." He crossed to the door, but she caught his wrist as he passed.

"No, it's all right. I want to stay. Really."

"If you're sure."

He was like some kind of Victorian groom, and she realised then that Gene was as nervous as she was. She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure," she said, and she rose, reaching up with a hand against his face. "I'm sure."

She kissed him lightly on the mouth, and he pressed his hands against her lower back, pulling her in to him. She felt as if she were coming in from the cold after a long while, and desire filled her limbs like warm blood.

"Yes. I want this, Gene. I want you. I want you. It's all right," she whispered in his ear and his mouth covered her face and down her neck.

They moved together toward the bed, and he lowered her there. They knelt side-by-side. She slid his shirt over his head and ran her hands down his broad chest as long, elegant fingers plucked gently at her buttons and tugged at her jeans.

She lay back on the bed, naked now, vulnerable. Shivering, aching for him. He eased himself on top of her, supporting himself on his hands. He stopped for a moment, his eyes on hers, paused at her entrance.

"It's all right…love you, Gene…" she whispered to him again, stroking his rough face. "Love you."

And then she arched her back as he slid inside her, and she said his name in a moan as he moved rhythmically above her. She had forgotten this, the touch of another person. She had forgotten that it could be soft and loving and welcome.

"God, Alex…" His voice came out a ragged whisper as he moved more insistently, his hips against hers, building slowly, gently.

She loved this. The feel of him. The feel of arms around her, his mouth on hers. This was the way it was meant to feel. She closed her eyes, curled her nails into his flesh and bit at her lip as the warm release coursed through her body. "God…yes…"

There was a final thrust, he cried out with her, and collapsed next to her. They lay with limbs entwined, bodies covered with sweat. He pulled her into his arms and against his chest.

She only wanted to lie here, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, the salt-taste of his skin against her lips. No one said anything. He seemed to instinctively know that words would somehow spoil it. Heheld her and stroked her back with his rough fingertips. It was the last thing she remembered before she drifted into sleep.

When she awoke, it was morning, and she could hear the sound of water running. She rolled over and rubbed at her eyes sleepily. Gene was in the bathroom, shaving at the sink wearing nothing but a vest and y-fronts. His hair was rumpled, and he looked every one of his years in the morning.

God, he really is handsome, she thought anyway. She loved him completely, and it seemed a miracle that they had managed to arrive at this place together. She wasn't the same. She never would be. But neither was he.

And as she sat there watching him with her knees pulled to her chest, it suddenly occurred to her that for the first time in a long while, the awful thing that had happened to her wasn't the first thing she had thought of in the morning.

She used to think that she would never be whole again. That there would always be a part of her missing. But that wasn't it. She had managed to put herself back together again, it was just that the pieces were slightly different now.

He took another stroke up his cheek and turned to her.

"'Morning," he muttered, his voice still rough with sleep. But she didn't answer. He frowned with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she managed through a watery smile. "Nothing at all."

THE END