Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes, but since yesterday's costume sale I do own a few of the clothes!

Funny how these things turn out - I started this story as a oneshot, using material I'd had to delete from the final chapter of "Operation Christmas Carol", and it's grown from there to become one of my longer stories. For the second time running, I'm breaking my own rule by starting to post before I've written the whole of the story, but it's the only way to get any sizeable proportion posted before S3 begins (whenever that is - cue for gnashing of teeth). At present I have several chapters in hand and aim to post one per week where possible.

As the title indicates, this is a sequel to "Operation Christmas Carol." I've tried to explain all references, but if anyone who hasn't read OCC is puzzled, ask me for clarification.

As always, I'd love to hear what you think! All reviews and feedback gratefully received.

Gene awakened on Boxing Day feeling happier than he had been in more than a year. He wasn't hungover, having only accounted for half a bottle of single malt and half a bottle of red wine the previous evening, but that alone could not account for the unaccustomed lightness he felt within himself. Having been on duty on Christmas Day, he had today on leave, and could afford to stay in bed a little longer. Relishing the chance to relax, he lay there, telling over the events of the past thirty-six hours in his mind. Or had it been longer than that? He was not entirely sure.

He still could not quite understand what had happened to him. On Christmas Eve at midnight, he had been visited by Mac, followed by the three spirits who had taken him on a wild journey through his past, his present, and his future.

Oh, God.

His future.

The final spirit had been that bastard Martin Summers, who had shown him what would happen next Christmas if he did not change his ways. He had awakened to find himself in his office, sent back with a chance to put everything right. And he had taken it. He had made good on his vow to Summers that he would be reconciled with Alex, forgive Chris, give Chris the day off to spend Christmas with his family, trust the team, and make sure everyone he knew had a merry Christmas. Well, nearly everyone. Bernie North was still languishing in the Fenchurch cells with a Santa costume and a black eye, but somehow Gene didn't think that that would count against him. He was, for the moment, deeply happy and at peace with his fellow men and women.

Had it all been a dream? If it wasn't, how come he had visited Chris's flat for the first time yesterday, and found it looking just as it had when Nelson had brought him there? And even if it was a dream, could he afford to ignore Summers' terrible predictions of what would happen in the coming year? Was what he had done yesterday, enough to change the future Summers had shown him?

The nighmare images flashed before him again with uncomfortable vividness. He had seen his house dark, empty, up for sale. I may never have liked the place much, but I'm staying here. That may make a difference. Break the pattern, like the things I did yesterday.

Summers had shown him his own grave. The headstone had said that he would be murdered on the seventeenth of October. Well, forewarned would be forearmed. At least, now his faith in his team had been restored, he would be able to rely on them to watch his back. Summers said it was a member of Carnegie's team. Maybe I won't be able to stop him trying to put a bullet in me, but I'll bloody well stop him succeeding.

Christ, I'm thinking about stopping something that hasn't happened yet. Just like Bolly. I saw her visited by a spirit too. Maybe that's how she knows about the future. Or thinks she does.

Nelson had shown him Alex, visited by the ghostly figure of a little girl whom she had addressed as Molly. At that moment, Gene had guessed that Alex's daughter must be dead, and that all Alex's rubbish about coming from the future was her way of trying to deal with it. He had realised then that, in rejecting her, he had failed her when she needed him most. He had thought that he had lost her for ever. But Summers had shown him that next Christmas, Alex would be brokenhearted over his death, admitting, too late, that she had loved him. God forbid that I should ever fail her again. Maybe she doesn't love me yet, maybe she never will, unless I get myself killed. But yesterday we were able to talk to each other again. She accepted my Christmas present, and she gave me hers. Something I'll treasure for ever. He squinted a glance at the small bronze lion on his bedside table. It's a start. I'll work on it.

Summers had shown him Chris and Shaz, distraught over the death of their daughter Tammy. Cot death, Summers said. In September. How the hell do I go about stopping a cot death? Bolly might know. She's a mother. Or she was.

Lying there in bed, he made a series of solemn vows to himself. By next Christmas, he would confound every one of Summers' predictions. He would fill his dark house with light and warmth. He would find a way to save himself, and to save Tammy. He would continue to rebuild his relationship with Alex, try to find some way of letting her know what he felt for her, and maybe, just maybe, get her to return it. His heart beat wildly at the thought.

It was a tall order. But he had a whole year.

-oO0Oo-

He spent the next few weeks quietly consolidating the gains he had made over Christmas. Some improvements were not possible to maintain in the long term. He had a secret dread that if he smiled all the time, it would get around the criminal population of London that Hunt was going soft. All the same, he found more things to make him smile, now. He spent a long time with Chris, going through his application form for promotion to Detective Sergeant and giving him useful advice, and he rang Shaz regularly to inquire after Tammy. Most importantly, he continued to strengthen his relationship with Alex. By day they worked and sparred together, and in the evenings they sat together at their old corner table in Luigi's, drinking and setting the world to rights. They had discovered two years since that they shared the same birthday, 10th February, and this year he made a point of engaging her company for the big day well in advance, by promising her dinner at the very poshest restaurant he could find which served Dover sole.

He had absolutely no idea what to get her for her birthday. As he had only just given her the charm bracelet at Christmas, he felt that he should not repeat himself by buying her jewellery again so soon. If he bought her anything to wear, it would probably be too tarty. He hesitated to give her flowers, knowing that Summers had scared her by leaving her roses. Although he had known her for two and a half years, he still had very little idea of her taste in books, films or music. He was stumped.

He had one lucky break when he spotted her reading a review in the Guardian of a book about Baudelaire, which she had marked with a cross. He quietly sent Josie, the WPC filling in for Shaz, to get a copy of the paper, and the following day he marched into Foyles, threw the paper on the counter, and demanded a copy of "that book" from the overawed assistant. He didn't want to admit that he had no idea how to pronounce it. It was a start, but it wasn't enough.

With only five days to go and no ideas in sight, he sat in Luigi's after she had left for the evening, gloomily wondering how to ask her to tell him what she wanted him to give her, when he noticed that she had left her scarf over the back of her chair. He picked it up, nipped up the stairs, and knocked at her door. A blast of cold air seemed to wrap itself around him as Alex opened the door, shivering despite her long jumper, leggings and thick socks.

She saw the scarf in his hand. "Oh, thank you, Gene. I hadn't realised that I'd left it downstairs."

"Bloody 'ell, Bols, what is this place - Spitzbergen?"

Alex smiled wanly. "The boiler's broken down. No heating and no hot water unless I boil it in a kettle. Don't blame Luigi," she added quickly, seeing that Gene was about to storm downstairs to berate her long-suffering landlord. "He called a repair man in right away, but the boiler needs a new part and it'll take at least a week to arrive. Sorry, I'd better not invite you in, or you'll freeze."

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer her the spare bedroom in his house until the boiler was fixed. A vision swam before his eyes of her sleeping peacefully amid the crisp white sheets, beneath the snug duvet, lulled and soothed by the warmth, and of him leaving tea outside her door and making breakfast for her - a proper breakfast, not the rabbit food she usually ate. But he checked himself. A few weeks ago, they had still been at war.

Must take it slowly. She might think I'm trying to get into her knickers. I could lose everything I've gained so far. He instantly thought up a Plan B.

"Phone," he barked. Alex, surprised, stood aside, and he swept into her living room, picked up the receiver, and dialled a number.

"Viv. Those portable electric heaters we had two winters ago, when the heating broke down. Are they still in the store room?"

"Just a moment, Sir, I'll check." There was a short silence, punctuated by the rustling of ledger pages while Gene tapped his fingers impatiently, before Viv returned to the phone. "We've still got all three of them, but only two work. The third broke down and was never repaired. Cost-cutting measure."

"Get out the two that work an' bring them over to Drake's flat. It's turned into a suburb of Siberia. Get plod to help you." He hung up triumphantly and turned to face Alex. "Sorted."

"Oh, but Gene, you can't. They're the property of the Met."

"So are you."

"Oh, no, I'm not. You never did get to stamp my bum, remember?"

Gene wisely decided to abandon that line of argument. "Can't 'ave my DI goin' down with pneumonia, can I? My station, I say who uses the facilities. Haven't used 'em in two years, you can check for us that they're still working."

Alex, still shivering, gave in and went to put the kettle on. A couple of minutes later, a knock at the door heralded Viv and a young PC with the two heaters. Under Gene's bawled directions, they heaved them into the flat, set up one in the living room and the other in the bedroom, and switched them on. While the warmth came through and the flat was filled with the smell of burning dust, Alex rewarded her rescuers with hot coffee all round, but Viv and the PC, warned by Gene's glares, soon departed.

"Not much," Gene admitted when he and Alex were left alone together, "but they should take the temperature in 'ere above freezing 'til the boiler's fixed."

"Thank you, Gene." Her smile was his reward. "It'll be a big help. I do appreciate it."

"No problem. Thanks for the coffee. 'Night, Bols." He took one final swig, set his mug down, and left with a jaunty air. He had had an idea.

-oO0Oo-

He had had no idea of where to take her for their birthday meal, and shortly after Christmas he had turned to Luigi for advice. The kindly Italian had shown what Gene considered to be great magnanimity given that his two best customers would be deserting him for the night.

"You want somewhere elegant, polite, discreet, no?"

"Yeah, that's right, Somewhere the rest of this rabble wouldn't go. Not another Italian restaurant, for God's sake. Want to give 'er a change."

"Besides, the Italian cuisine in other restaurants cannot rival mine." Luigi's eyes twinkled.

"Yeah, no steak an' chips pizza."

"If you can get a table, why not try the Ivy? Simple, honest food, beautifully cooked. Squisito. But not cheap."

Gene swallowed hard. "Worth it just the once. Ta, Luigi, I'll give it a go."

"To impress the lady?"

"Something like that."

Getting a table at the Ivy was a harder job than he had anticipated, but the production of his warrant card, coupled with the fact that he knew one of the senior waiters of old, managed to secure him the coveted reservation. While he was at it, he had a quiet word with the maître d' about a special request for the evening.

He had never heard of the place, but he had the impression that it was classy, so he made a point of not telling Alex in advance where he was taking her. Knowing him, she realised that it could either be somewhere very good, or somewhere absolutely terrible.

He collected her from the now barely warm flat after work, and found her wearing a red ensemble so alluring that he wondered if he would be able to remember how to drive the Quattro.

"Bloody 'ell, Bols, you've got out your gladdest rags out I see." He was glad that he had stopped to change into his best suit and tie before leaving work.

"Thanks." She twirled her wrist to show off her charm bracelet. "So have you. So, now will you tell me where we're going tonight?"

"Nope. You'll 'ave to interview me once we're in the car, an' see if you can get it out of me wi' psycho-bollocks."

But all her efforts to catch him out with word association failed, until he had reluctantly deposited the Quattro in the St Martin's Lane NCP and walked her around the corner to West Street. She stood in front of the entrance, gazing at it like a child invited to Disneyland.

"Here? You're bringing me here? Oh, Gene, what a wonderful birthday present!"

"Steady on, this is only the grub." He was trying to conceal how gobsmacked he was by her reaction. "You'll get your present afterwards."

He had known that he would feel out of place in such a smart establishment. Crisp linen tablecloths which would stand up by themselves. Gleaming silver cutlery. Sweet trollies whose wheels had a distinctly snobbish rumble. Celebrities at their ease, off duty, dining quietly without the need to put on a show for their audience or for one another. He felt all the more awkward because Alex was so obviously at home in this posh environment. He feared that, taking her there had only served to remind her how different they were. But the food, simple but perfectly prepared, and the excellent wine, both restored his spirits, even though he was sure that he could hear his wallet whimpering.

He had not realised what a difference it would make, to be alone with her for a whole evening, away from their usual haunts. Without the need to put on their own show for their colleagues, they could talk openly, freely, letting the barriers down. She encouraged him to reminisce about Manchester and Sam. At first he tried to avoid the subject, and she guessed that he shied away from the pain of reopening old wounds. She craftily turned the conversation to Jackie Queen, with whom she corresponded regularly, and soon Gene was holding forth on the Gazette siege, being cuffed to a radiator with Sam, the loss of his faithful hip flask, and his ongoing war with Litton. He was even able to laugh at his memories, and that warmed her heart.

The waiter cleared their plates and politely offered the dessert menu. Alex held out her hand for it, but Gene waved it away.

"Won't be needing that. Got a special arrangement." He signalled ostentatiously to someone behind Alex, and one of the snobbish trollies rumbled in their direction, accompanied by several voices singing "Happy Birthday To You". Alex, saucer-eyed, swivelled in her seat to see a large birthday cake with pink and white icing, blazing with candles, being pushed towards them. Behind her, Gene was singing as well.

As the cake reached them, the whole restaurant stood and applauded. She turned to him, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"But it's your birthday, too."

He grinned. "Your surprise. But I'll 'elp you eat it, if you insist. Fruitcake, of course. We can blow the candles out together."

We'll blow the candles out together. Suddenly it was she who was overwhelmed by memories almost too painful to be borne, but she tamped them down. Gene had gone to all this trouble for her, and she could not spoil it for him. "Yes. Let's."

He rose and stood beside her. "Remember to make a wish, Bols." They closed their eyes, took a deep breath, and blew. Between them they managed to extinguish all the candles, and the applause redoubled. He opened his eyes and looked at her. He knew what he had wished for, even though he feared he would never have it. He wondered what her wish had been. She was smiling, but he caught the pain behind her apparent gaiety. Something had upset her, and he could not think what.

Of course, you stupid bastard. The ghost of her daughter carries a birthday cake. I've gone and reminded her of that. I couldn't have done anything to upset her more, and I can't even apologise. I can't possibly tell her what I know, or how I know it.

The maître d' proffered a cake knife. "Would the lady care to cut the cake?"

Alex took it. "Yes, please. Let's cut it together." She laid it on the surface of the cake, and Gene laid his hand over hers. The sensation was so exquisite that he could only just exert enough pressure to let the knife pierce the icing. Their eyes met, and he trembled at the loss, longing and need that he saw in her eyes, which he knew was mirrored in his.

Alex pressed the knife down to make a proper incision, and turned to the maître d'. "We can't possibly eat all this between us. I'll cut off a large slice for each of us and a slab to take home for our colleagues. Please bring lots of plates and share out the rest among everyone in the restaurant."

He was terrified that he had ruined everything, but as they guzzled cake and drank Bollinger, she seemed to recover her spirits. By the time they left, she appeared to be back to normal, but he could not be sure how much was real and how much an act.

They were both silent while he drove her home. The Quattro pulled up outside Luigi's, and he turned to her.

"Thanks for the evening, Bols. It was good." He felt awkward again.

"Thank you too," she said warmly. "For everything. For dinner, and the cake, and your company. I've enjoyed it all so much."

"Well, it's not quite over yet. I got Luigi to leave your presents in your flat. Too big to take to the restaurant."

"Yours are up there, too. Won't you come up for them, and have a nightcap?"

"Ta." They got out of the car, and he locked it while Alex unlocked the street door. They went up the stairs together. He didn't know why he felt so nervous. They had often had a drink together in her flat since their reconciliation, but he sensed that this was different. Could be different.

The anticipated blast of cold air hit them when she unlocked her front door, but the temperature improved once they had switched on the lights and the heaters. A bottle of Bollinger, two glasses, a large boxed fruit panettone and two birthday cards in Luigi's writing had been left on the coffee table, and Alex was intrigued by the huge, squashy parcel on the sofa. Gene opened the champagne and poured it out, and handed a glass to Alex.

"Happy birthday, Bols."

"Happy birthday, Gene."

They clinked glasses and drank. Alex reached under the coffee table and drew out three parcels.

"Happy birthday, Gene. Open the largest one last."

The first and smallest parcel proved to be an Old Spice gift set, and the second, a plain navy blue tie, pure silk and undoubtedly expensive.

"A bit restrained for your usual tastes, I know," said Alex, laughing, "but I thought it might do for when you have to impress the top brass."

"Sodding Supers aren't getting this. I'll save it for special occasions an' dazzle everyone with a flash of me silk. Thanks, Bolly, it's great."

The third present was a large book, which left him almost speechless.

"Brian Garfield's Western Films, A Complete Guide? Bloody 'ell, I didn't even know this existed! Where in the name of John Wayne did you find this?"

"A specialist shop which I happen to know, ordered it for me from America. It's very new, only published last year. I 've been dreading that it wouldn't arrive in time. It only came in on Monday." She forebore to add that she had only know of its existence because a boyfriend whom she had dumped in 2006 had owned a copy.

He was already leafing excitedly through the pages, but looked up and fixed her with his best glare. "What specialist shop? Where?"

"Ah-ha, I'm not telling you. If you find it you'll buy up half the shop on sight, and I'm relying on it to provide me with a few more presents for you yet."

He pouted. "Unfair on DCIs."

"Have some more champagne and stop sulking."

"First, 'ave some presents yourself." He reached under the large parcel and extracted a smaller one. "Happy birthday, Bolly."

It was the Baudelaire book. Alex was flabbergasted. "How on earth did you know I wanted this?"

He winked. "You're not the only detective in this flat. Saw you reading about this book in your paper, got the details an' went to Foyles for it." He picked up the big, squashy parcel and dumped it in her arms. She put it on the sofa to open it. It contained a floor-length crimson dressing gown in soft Pyrenean wool, a chunky hand knitted alpaca and silk cardigan, and a huge, soft, white woollen shawl.

"Hope you like 'em." Gene took the shawl, folded it into a triangle, and draped it carefully around her shoulders. "Thought they might do 'til Luigi gets the boiler fixed. Shawl's big enough to double as an extra blanket if you need it. They were the warmest in the shop."

She slowly looked up at him, and to his horror and embarrassment her eyes were glittering with tears again.

"They're lovely, Gene. Thank you so much. So kind, so thoughtful, so generous. I can't say what this means to me."

"What, a few bits of wool?" he said roughly.

"Not just the presents. The dinner. The cake. Everything."

"Y'welcome," he muttered.

Half of him was desperate to go, dreading that he might be in over his head if he stayed any longer. The other half could not move, transfixed by the intensity of her gaze and the unspoken things he saw there.

"I'd felt so alone, for so long." Her voice was a silver thread of sound. "I thought I'd lost you. But since Christmas - "

"You had," he admitted. "But not now. Never again."

She shook her head, and the beauty of her eyes was marred by sudden fear. A single tear rolled down her cheek. "I don't know. It's been so long since I had any messages from home. Maybe this is my only life now. If I do get the chance to go home, then for my daughter's sake I'll have to take it, even though the choice should break my heart." She would never understand the deep compassion which flashed into his eyes at that moment. "All I know is, that while I'm here, I can't go on alone any more." Her hands stole up to cup his face. He could scarcely breathe. "I need you, Gene. I always did. I always will. Wherever I am."

Don't you think she needs someone? Nelson had said that, on Christmas Eve.

Where I'm needed.

"Alex." It was so hard for him to speak. "You 'ave to be very sure about this."

He had called her Alex. He only did that when he was utterly serious. The last time had been when they quarrelled in his office, the night before Operation Rose. The memory hung between them like a shadow for a moment, and was gone.

"Oh, I am. I am. If you are."

"Yeah."

Her hands reached around the back of his head and tangled in his hair as she drew him closer. His breath fanned her face for a moment before his lips touched hers, lightly, gently. It was so little, and yet so much. He drew back to look deep into her eyes. They were like dark pools, full of longing. She looked so lost and alone, so vulnerable. He bent his head and kissed her again, and this time the kiss seemed to last forever. They clung together in the dimly lit room, as though they had to drink from one another to live. They broke apart at last. Her hands stole over his shoulders and down his arms, and she took his hands in hers. The shawl dropped unnoticed to the ground. She stepped backwards, drawing him with her, her eyes never leaving his as she led him to the bedroom.

They stood facing each other, and for a moment neither moved. She reached up and gently loosened his tie. He felt the slight tremor in her hands. Growing bolder, she slid her hands along his shoulders and pushed his jacket off, then unbuttoned his shirt. They both started to shiver as the freezing cold hit them, and, laughing gently, they shed the rest of their clothes in record time before she pulled him beneath the warm duvet.

-oO0Oo-

She had not expected kindness.

That was her first thought when she awakened in the early hours of the morning, clasped close in his arms, feeling his damp skin against hers, listening to his steady heartbeat and his rhythmic snores.

She had always thought that if they did ever end up in bed, the act would be fuelled by alcohol and, as likely as not, by anger. She had thought that he would be a taker, greedy only for his own satisfaction, only to find that he was a giver. She had never felt so cherished. After two and a half years, at last she felt safe. He had shared himself with her, breaking down every barrier she had built up around herself ever since her parents' death, since Pete had deserted her, since she had wandered into this time, alone and terrified. He had reached through to the very core of her being. They had just experienced passion beyond her wildest dreams, yet it had been blended with an almost unbearable tenderness. He had held her as though she were made of glass, too fragile and precious for him to touch. At the last, she had reached up and caressed his rough cheek, whispering his name, astonished that he could draw such deep emotions from her. Afterwards, cradling her against his chest, he had looked fearfully into her eyes and said, very low, "Please tell me I didn't hurt you, Alex."

"Of course you didn't," she had whispered, stroking his face and smoothing the damp hair from his brow. "You were so gentle. Gentle Gene Genie. My matchless Lion." He had nodded, relieved, clearly unable to say more. She sensed that for him, too, their union had unearthed emotions too intense for him to explore. He was a man who would shy away from such things, if he could. Neither of them had been prepared for the depth of feeling that they had awakened in one another. Lost and lonely, needing one another, in coming together at last they had both found what they lacked. They had been in denial for too long about what they felt for each other. Perhaps, if they had time, they would be able to come to terms with those feelings and explore them to the full. She treacherously hoped that they would have time, before she had to return home.

She had entered this world as an outsider, and still sought to leave it. She had never looked to find her own place here, yet it had unerringly found her. Her place in this world was the space within the circle of Gene Hunt's strong arms, upon his warm, passionate, loving heart. And she was well content to be there.

-oO0Oo-

Gene awakened just as the dawn's first feeble rays began to struggle through the slats of the window blind. He had dreamt about waking up here so often that at first he was convinced that this was just one more hopeless dream. Only when he felt the woman in his arms stirring restlessly in her sleep, then stilling as he gently caressed her hair, could he persuade himself that this was reality. Alex had taken him to her bed and given herself to him, and he had given himself in return. She had been everything that he had ever imagined and more, far more. She was perfection in an imperfect world. He could not imagine how he could ever keep her, yet the thought of living without her now was unbearable.

He had slept with many women, and flattered himself that none of them had had any complaints, but what he had just experienced with Alex was different from anything he had ever known. In joining himself to her, he had used his body to express everything he felt for her. All the things he could not say. "Making love", to him, had only ever been a hackneyed phrase to describe a physical act, but their union had truly created a love between them which he felt certain would last. Of course, it might not. She might kick him out, with or without breakfast, and never allude to their night together again. But if what they had just made together endured, as he prayed it would, then he vowed that he would never fail her again. He would be everything to her, as she was to him. As her superior officer, he would face every danger at her side and guard her with his life. As her lover, he would make his arms her shelter and his heart her resting place. And if ever she felt that she had to leave, on some futile quest for her lost daughter, then he would ask her to let him go with her, wherever she went.

Maybe that's what Summers meant by me transferring.

He drifted off to sleep, and awakened again to full daylight. She was leaning on one elbow, looking down at him. She was so beautiful that he could hardly bear it. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her all his love, but he checked himself.

Too early. I might scare her off. Give her time.

He tried not to look as terrified as he felt. In yielding to his love for her, he had just given her the power to destroy him.

"Morning, gorgeous." She slid one hand over his chest to caress his neck and shoulder.

That sounds promising. "You're not too bad yourself," he rumbled. She bent to kiss his chest.

"Careful, I'm ticklish."

She giggled. "I'm not." Her hair swept his chest as she looked up at him. "It's Saturday. I'm not on duty. Are you?"

"Nope."

"What shall we do, then?"

"Dunno. Gimme the menu."

"Well - " She touched him expertly, making him yelp with pleasure. "We could do more of what we've been doing."

"Sounds good."

"Or we could have breakfast."

"Eventually."

"Very eventually. Or we could have a shower. A long, sexy shower."

"Sounds good too - no, 'ang on, you told me you 'aven't any hot water 'til the boiler's fixed. D'you want to freeze my knackers off?"

"Certainly not." Another expert touch. "They do a very good job, right where they are." She gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well, if you want to keep warm, it looks as though we'll have to stay here."

He grinned broadly. "Let's."

Best birthday I've ever had.

Right, Summers, you bastard, that's Number One on my list.

TBC