And finally...after 6 months, the final chap. Thanks to everyone that reviewed this fic and stuck with it thought it took me forever! (PS: can you tell i like to echo things as much as the writers of ashes? Face/palm)

Epilogue: 10,893 Days After

Alex always used to say that people came into your life for a reason. She'd always go philosophical when she used that phrase, describing the different types of people that someone could be. She had so many different ways to describe it. Once she told me that I had kicked the door down. I have no idea what that meant, but I've always liked to think that it was a good thing.

She had always talked about leaving, but that was always just talk. She never meant it. Maybe in the beginning she did. But by 4 August, 1983, she didn't. She wanted to go on a date with me. I knew somehow that night, she wouldn't be referring to it as a 'Last Supper,' like she had on the date in 1981. She was happy in the station. I took my time to ask her on the date, confident that I'd have many opportunities to ask her.

I never realised how quickly time passes us by until the moment I saw her flat explode. In that moment, I saw all silent looks, all the flirtations at Luigi's, all the chances that I had missed. I thought I had all the time in the world, but time had its own ideas. Time laughed in my face. It laughed at my ideas, my plans, my hopes for the future. Time looked at me and told me that I had waited too long.

I waited at her bedside for sixty-seven days, worrying. I saw her improve enough to wake up. And then, because of a novice error, I saw her decline. I saw her slip back into a coma and die. I had lost her. She couldn't fight any longer. The opportunities I was so sure that I had had all disappeared. I was alone again. I knew I could no longer work at that station, so I retired.

I know they were happy to see me go. And I know that Keats was right. He had won. When I left, the station fell to shambles, just like he had promised it would.

I felt bad, but I could not continue there. I could not go into work every day, seeing that empty desk staring me in the face, gloating at me. Gloating over the fact that I had lost her. If I had not stopped for the fag, I would have been in the flat with her when that bomb went off. I would have gone into a coma with her. Maybe that meant I would have travelled to the future like she did.

But I'm not from the future. I was born in 1934. I was raised in Manchester. I lived through the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies before I knew a woman like Alex Drake existed. If I had entered a coma with her, I wouldn't have gone anywhere.

I was never able to prevent her from dying. Not even in 2013. I was on my way up when I heard the shots. And when I burst in there, there was Ray's niece, looking shocked, and Keats, staring with a huge smile.

He laughed even as the police were handcuffing him. I moved over to the girl, the child, a bullet through the left side of her forehead. I felt for a heartbeat. I found none. I moved over to Alex. There was no doubt she was dead. I held her in my arms until they made me release her, my mind flooded with memories.

I remembered her, dressed as a prostitute, putting up a fight when I tried to get her into CID. When she thought I was corrupt. When I thought she was corrupt. All of this was remembered with stunning clarity. And then, though I tried to resist, I remembered the final 67 days of her life.

I remembered carrying her out of her flat. I remembered the panic I felt when I first saw her in the hospital, covered in bandages. I remembered the sinking feeling in my stomach when I heard her condition. I remembered the weeks that followed, the hope that grew when I realised she was getting better. The excitement after the layers of bandages were removed, leaving only the ones on her burns. Being able to see her face again, even though it was marred by scars.

I remembered her waking up, the excitement I had felt followed by the worry when I realised that she couldn't remember anything. I remembered the conversations that followed during the three days she was awake. I remembered her becoming delirious, not able to tell who doctors were, trying to fight them as they helped her. Her calling my name in her fear, unable to realise that I was there. The heat of her skin in fever.

What I remembered best though, is the sound of her final breath. It was quiet, insignificant, but there was no breath that followed. The monitor had fallen flat immediately after that, calling in the team of doctors and nurses to save her life. One by one, they had shaken their heads until finally at 9:06, her death was called.

And I remembered the last time I saw her. She was pale, her face covered in the sheen of sweat. The pink of her scars contrasted greatly with her pale face. I remembered Florence pulling me away from her bedside trying to console me.

Those memories are what made me come here today. Listening to the prayer recited by the vicar for her and her daughter, I know that I will never forget Alex Drake. The rage of fire can destroy many things. But it cannot destroy memory. And although Time is cruel, it is not cruel enough to remove my memories. Until the day I die, I carry the memory of Alex Drake. And in that way, she'll live on.

My name is Gene Hunt. It has been 10,893 days since the day my Alex, the 1980's Alex died. I've continued on through the eighties, the nineties, and now into the 21st century feeling as though there was something missing. My time is approaching quickly, and I only hope that we can be reunited soon. I still owe her dinner.

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