One More For The Soulmate Dreamers

He lit another cigarette and resumed his surveillance of the hospital entrance. A few more people exited the building, a man and two blonde haired women who looked like they could be sisters, and behind them one determined older gentleman, his pyjamas mostly hidden by his robe and, as he was attached to a drip of some sort, pulling a pole along with him as he sneaked outside for his own cigarette. Gene blew out a puff of smoke, growing impatient with the continued no show of two particular people. He'd waited so long for this day that a few more minutes shouldn't have mattered but he had been stood outside for almost an hour now, having seen that stupid poncy car and realising that Alex already had visitors. And it had been easier to wait before, when he hadn't known that it would be this bad. For a moment he considered walking over to the entrance and striking up a conversation with the old man, commiserating with him on the loss of certain liberties, just to pass some time and vent some of his frustration but he dismissed it in favour of glancing at his newspaper again. The other man might have been a kindred spirit of sorts but he wouldn't understand the one loss that Gene feared the most. The pages of his newspaper had been folded over, and over again, so that one - tragically - short article was visible, and his eyes came to rest on the phrase that still had the power to jump out of the print and punch him in the jaw a day later: critical condition.

The knot in his stomach that had formed the moment he'd heard on the police grapevine that DI Drake was missing tightened as his mind helpfully supplied a dog-eared memory he'd been unable to let go of all these years: Alex, lying deathly still and unresponsive in a hospital bed. He'd been responsible for that, unintentionally of course but negligent all the same. The fact that it had never actually happened had never dampened the way it made him feel, the way he still felt, and now she'd been shot all over again. In an effort to regain persepective, he reminded himself that, for her at least, this was actually the first time she'd been shot but the reasoning really didn't help him; though he hadn't pulled the trigger this time he still felt the same stab of guilt as he had before because he should have been able to prevent this. He should have stopped this from happening to her. Again. And he should never have agreed to do nothing.

Four whiskys in, Alex thought he was finally starting to accept the situation. His situation, she corrected herself as she sipped from her own glass, unable and unwilling to match the pace he was setting but needing the comfort and the warmth of the alcohol as much as him. She studied him quietly over the rim of her glass as she let the alcohol burn its way down her throat. He seemed perfectly calm now - though she knew that still waters ran deep, especially with him - which was in stark contrast to little under an hour ago when he'd been stomping about Luigi's in search of something to kick, his mouth almost matching the pace of his legs, whilst both herself and Luigi had watched from the sidelines, both thankful that there was no one else about but for different reasons. The quick work Gene had made of the first whisky had done nothing to temper him, it had just added fuel to his fire and she had been about to question the wisdom of Luigi's offering when the second had made an inroad of sorts and the pacing, and the shouting, had started to wane.

By the time she'd managed to get him to sit back down, shooing the obviously worried proprietor away after first taking custody of the bottle of whisky, the questions had started. Seated on the opposite side of the table to Gene she'd heard the very same questions she'd asked herself over and over from the moment she'd arrived here fall from his mouth. The 'hows', 'whys' and 'wherefores' had tumbled out along with the outright denials - all of which had been an attempt to hold out for a bit longer, to cling on to this life in this world - and she'd felt like she was sat on the wrong side of the interview room with him, as if she was the suspect desperate to make him believe she was telling the truth. And she had been. She'd answered his questions as best as she could but the truth was that she was no expert in this world; every time she'd thought that she'd worked it out, something had pulled the rug from under her and though the latest carpet movement had been directly under Gene's snakeskin booted feet it was true to say that she'd been just as surprised when she'd found out.

Looking at him now, his head bowed in quiet consideration, he had never seemed so real to her; looking at him now she finally understood that he always had been real - just like her. She wanted to kick herself for having not seen it before now but how could she have done when even Gene himself hadn't known? There'd always been that underlying feeling that he was somehow the key to this world but over the years she'd let herself get distracted from that line of enquiry by her parents, by Super Mac, by Martin Summers, and most recently, thanks to DCI Keats, by Sam Tyler's accident. The latter, thankfully, hadn't turned out like her other distractions; there'd been no sting in the tail, no grand revelation that had subsequently rocked her world, just Gene's stilted and awkward confession, when he'd finally told her the previous week, that the only thing he'd been hiding from her was the guilt he was carrying at not being there when Sam had needed him. She thought that she should probably have seen that from the beginning, too but then she'd always had trouble putting the pieces together in time - her previous distractions were proof of that. But this time was going to be different.

"Gene?" she said softly, placing her glass down onto the table but leaving her eyes on him. Whilst he'd been questioning everything he'd believed in for the last God knew how many years - she hadn't dared ask him how long he had been here though it had to be decades rather than years - she'd been reassessing this world, a little more quietly, as well. And she knew now that she hadn't come here to save her parents, or to bring down Super Mac, or to unwittingly play her part in Martin Summers' plan: she'd come here for Gene. He was most likely the reason Sam had found himself in this world, too only Tyler had become as enamoured by and immersed in this place as Gene had. She couldn't blame either man for succumbing - she'd come close to doing the same thing herself and if it wasn't for her daughter she might have yielded already.

Taking another drag of his cigarette he glanced away from the newspaper and upwards, returning his gaze to the hospital entrance. The old man was now happily puffing away like there was no tomorrow and a few more visitors were making their way out of the hospital though there was still no sign of the two people he was waiting for. Exhaling slowly, he let his gaze wander upwards, tracing the pattern of windows and wondering which room was hers. Wondering if she'd make it through. He'd known that whatever was going to happen to her would have to be serious, he'd been preparing himself for years for such an outcome, but he hadn't expected her to be shot in the head and at such close range. It was far too serious. No wonder she'd glossed over the details of what would happen to her.

Movement from below dragged his gaze back to the entrance and he finally spotted the familiar, albeit considerably older, face of Evan White - owner of the aforementioned poncy car. Holding on to the lawyer's hand was a small figure that tore a little hole in Gene's heart, that made him regret his lack of interference just that little bit more. Alex's daughter, the child whose existence he had once questioned so heartlessly, earning himself one hell of a slap across the face in response, kept apace with her guardian but her head was bowed, her gaze on her shoes and the dirty pavement beneath them. From his vantage point he couldn't tell for certain but he suspected that there would be a frown on the child's face. It would match his own. Evan's face hadn't given anything away - which was to be expected from someone who made a living out of telling lies in court - and his hopes sank further as his thoughts grew darker. He knew that they'd operated on Alex, had taken out the bullet and patched her up - news of her progress was the talk of his station, was likely the talk of every station in London, though whilst everyone else had been able to put forward that mixture of impersonal sympathy and anger at the fate of a colleague he'd had to temper his own, more emotional, response. As far as everybody else in this world was concerned, he and Alex didn't know each other, they'd never even met. It was what she'd wanted.

There'd been a day, years ago, when he'd unexpectedly found himself in the same station as Alex Drake. Having not seen her for nearly twenty years at that point he'd still recognised her instantly, despite the sober business suit she'd worn and the way her hair had been simply tied back. Unable to resist the temptation that had been in front of him he'd casually passed by her but she hadn't recognised him, had almost looked right through him; she hadn't been his Bolly, not then, and as crushing as it had felt at the time, he'd taken solace in the knowledge that there wouldn't be much longer to wait, that he was getting ever closer to having his Alex Drake back. His guts twisted violently with the thought that he'd been fooling himself, that he might never see his Bolly again, that she might not recover from this. Regrets were pointless but right then, even though he had promised that he wouldn't go looking for her until the time was right, he wished that he had introduced himself to Alex Drake that day. This might still have happened to her, despite his guilt riddled conscience he really didn't know enough about her fate to be able to stop it and he wouldn't have been able to keep her close by for every minute of every day in order to protect her from every conceivable incident, but he could have had five more years with her; could have made her fall in love with him again; could have loved her like he'd always wanted, and never had the chance, to; could've loved her daughter as if the child was his own; could've been there for them both.

Getting no response from her verbal prompt she leant forward onto the table and reached across to slip her hand onto his. His gaze finally drifted upwards with the touch of her hand, a frown tugging on his lips and she smiled softly at him, hoping to illicit a similar response but failing. For a brief moment the left side of his head was covered in blood. She didn't need the further confirmation; after months of hinting she'd finally made the connection between the young copper she'd been seeing and Gene and it had been as if someone had finally switched on the light. She'd known then that Gene was her raison d'être and that getting him to accept the truth of this world would be difficult. She understood all too well the pull of this place, of the people within it, but she was here to guide him home. And when he went home she would be able to, too.

"I don't remember the future, Bols. There are no flying cars, no meals in a pill, no nothing. This is all I remember," he said gruffly, a hint of denial lacing his words though he didn't pull his hand away from hers.

"Because this is your time, Gene," she answered quietly. "There is no future for you to remember. Not yet, anyway. Not until you go back and start to live it." His gaze searched hers and she held it as comfortingly as she held his hand. She'd always thought that time was running out for her, and in a way she supposed that it had been because she was cutting this very fine, but it was really his time that had been diminishing. Every day here had been another step towards young PC Hunt meeting his fate up in Manchester and she didn't want to think about what might happen if Gene, her Gene, didn't wake up before then. He might just end up trapped here permanently but a niggling voice at the back of her mind whispered that if he didn't he might die here - and in the real world, too. He had to go home; she had to get him home. And she was almost certain that the case they were currently working would be enough to send them both back home.

He was still firmly pouting at her words when his eyes suddenly sharpened, "But this isn't your time, is it Alex?"

She gripped his hand with a little more force, letting her thumb trace over the skin, at his question. As she'd been carefully reassessing her perceptions of Gene and this world she'd inevitably found herself working out one particular sum in her head: if he existed in the real world then she could have both him and her daughter at the same time - and in 2008, when they could meet again, they'd be roughly the same ages they were now. The thought had pleased her immeasurably because she'd known for some time that letting go of Gene Hunt would be so very hard to do. But, she conceded now, she might have forgot to factor everything in. Her thumb slowed its movements as she recalculated the sum; he had a life in the real 1983 - if he wasn't already married then there'd be plenty of time for him to meet someone else before she ever saw him again. "No," she agreed truthfully and sadly.

Taking one long and final drag he stubbed out what was left of his cigarette on the wall behind him and set off towards the entrance. Thankfully, Evan and the child had headed off in the opposite direction so he wouldn't have to cross their paths; he supposed that it wouldn't have really mattered because, in much the same way that Alex hadn't known him, Evan wouldn't recognise him either but he didn't want to have to look in the child's eyes and feel the guilt cutting in any deeper than it was already. The old man near the doorway avoided his gaze as he approached and he realised that he must look like the miserable bastard he was right then. As if in confirmation the glass in the automatic doors briefly reflected his scowling image before it hurried away and allowed him entrance. His lips stayed firmly in place as he entered the building.

He hated hospitals; had hated waking up in one and finding out that the life he'd lived, the life he'd loved, had really been nothing but an illusion and that he'd have to wait years, decades perhaps, to get the best part of it back. It didn't matter that he'd woken up, alive and well and as a much younger man than he'd thought he was; didn't matter that, with youth and wisdom, he had the best of both ages because there was one very important person missing. He trusted Alex though, as implicitly as she'd trusted him; near the end of his time in that other place he'd given her good reason to doubt him and just when it looked like his silence was going to push her away forever she'd done an about turn. She hadn't demanded the truth from him that time, she hadn't demanded anything - she'd just quietly informed him that she knew the truth, that she trusted him more than Keats, more than anyone else. It was all he'd wanted to hear and even though he had considered the fact that she might be employing those psychological tactics she was so fond of on him he'd spilt his guts to her anyway.

Everything had changed between them after that and very quickly, too. Working closely together, trusting each other, again had swiftly led them to the surprising discovery of his real existence; there should have been more fanfare with that revelation but, though he'd never admitted as much to anyone else, he'd always had the feeling that something wasn't quite right with that other world - it had never made much sense so it had always been filed away as downright crazy, just as Alex and her strange comments had been ignored, too. He'd been more surprised that he'd finally found himself in her bed. He'd wanted her from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her but he had soon realised that, short of taking advantage of her when she was drunk, nothing was going to happen. He'd settled for being her colleague, bordering on friend, if only because there was no other option; he couldn't get rid of her - despite everything she was a good copper - and he didn't want her to go. And all that time, he'd just kept on falling and falling for her.

The memories of the last night he'd spent with her in that other lifetime had got him through those first few dark months in this one and the promise of getting her back eventually, the promise she'd made to him, had been enough to get him through the subsequent years. Only, now he wasn't sure he was going to get her back at all. Two times he had asked her outright if she'd really be here - because there'd been absolutely no way he was going to leave without her - and both times her answer had been the same; the first time, sat in the corner at Luigi's, he'd believed her; the second time, upon waking up in her bed to find her eyes silently watching him and her hand gently stroking his face, he hadn't felt so sure about her answer. She'd distracted him before he'd had chance to nurture that feeling and then the blag had kicked off earlier than anticipated. He'd never had the opportunity to ask her a third time because, in the midst of the blag, the world around them had turned a murky white and he'd found himself back in the real world, without her.

Striding through the entrance with more confidence than he felt he collared the first knowledgeable person - a porter - he encountered and asked for directions to intensive care. A flash of his warrant card was enough to halt the protestations that visiting hours were over and he was soon on his way once more, thankful that his badge still carried some weight even in these crazy, politically correct fuelled times. To a large extent his life here had followed much the same path as the one his mind had taken him down, just as his imagined past had closely mirrored his real history. Making it into CID had always been his ambition, had been the reason he'd joined the force, and thanks to both Sam and Alex's influences he'd soon risen up through the ranks in this world, eventually capturing the title of DCI once more. In direct copyright of that other life, his marriage had failed here as well. His now ex wife had blamed the head injury that had put him into his coma - and that other place - for the break up and he'd let her. It was as close to the truth as he'd wanted to get and she'd have thought he was crazy if he'd been honest with her. When this life had come rushing back to him he'd remembered that he was married. The moment he'd acknowledged that fact he'd also acknowledged that what he felt for Alex surpassed everything else; she was the reason his marriage had failed, the reason all of his subsequent relationships had failed, too - he was just waiting for her to turn his life around all over again.

"How long?" he asked quietly, his gaze softening.

He was so accepting of the admission that she was from the future this time round that it was hard to believe he was the same man who had reacted so coldly, and so clinically in his retaliation, when he'd been told the same thing last year. The change warmed her more than the alcohol but not as much as the inference that had come with his words, not as much as the tone of his voice, not as much as the way he was looking at her. There was an unspoken meaning behind his question that made her chest ache: how long do I have to wait? She wanted to tell him, to ask him to wait for her because, almost as much as she wanted to be with her daughter, she wanted a life with him, she wanted the chance to love him. As much as she'd been trying to ignore it, and for some time now, she knew that she loved him. But, even if he wasn't already married, it simply wasn't fair of her to ask so much of him. It wasn't right to give him back his life and then ask for half of it back straight away. "You have to live your life, Gene. Forget about me."

His hand gripped hers as she tried to pull away, tried to sever the link between them before time did it for her. His fingers slowly snaked up the inside of her wrist, the tips of his digits brushing lightly over the sensitive skin as he caught her attention and made his intention clear. "I'm not going to forget you, Alex."

She smiled widely at him in response; fell a little harder for him, too. Her heart seemed to fill her entire chest with the thought that he wanted the chance as much as she did. "Then you mustn't go looking for me. Not until I wake up," she said softly, unwilling to try and deter him any further. If he was prepared to wait almost a quarter of a century for her then she'd love him all the more for it but he couldn't find her before then. She wouldn't have a clue who he was if he did but it was more than that; she wasn't sure why but she had the strangest feeling that if Gene somehow interfered with the timeline of the real world then it would alter what happened in this one. If she knew Gene before she got shot, before she'd heard all about Sam Tyler, would it somehow prevent her from coming to this world and if it did then who would help Gene realise that this world wasn't what it seemed to be? It sounded crazy to her but then so did the idea that they were both occupying some bizarre coma world at the same time whilst they were lying comatose in entirely different decades. The very same world that Sam had somehow visited from yet another time period. "And you can't go looking for Sam either," she added on quickly.

Gene shook his head slightly. "Why not?"

The words were on the tip of her tongue before she realised what she was about to say. Given how cut up Gene was about Sam's accident she didn't want to tell him that his friend had willingly thrown himself off the roof of a building to get back here. She didn't know how to explain any of it to him though maybe that was the best way. Neither herself nor Sam had ever bothered to check if there really was a Gene Hunt - they'd both just assumed that it had all been part of Sam's subconscious - but maybe he'd always been there, watching them both from afar and waiting because she'd told him, right here and right now, to do just that. "Just promise me," she pleaded, her head starting to ache a little from the booze and from trying to work the whole thing out.

"All right, Sleeping Beauty. I promise."

Pushing the requisite button the lift doors closed and he shut his eyes briefly as it ascended, still trying not to think the worst and failing. He'd already lost Sam because she'd asked him not to go looking for his friend, he couldn't lose her as well. Like her own fate, she'd never told him what would happen to Sam either and for years afterwards, once he could get his head around it, he'd presumed it was because Sam needed to meet whatever fate had in store for him so that he could go to that other place and subsequently be able to tell Alex about it. And he needed Alex. He'd reassured himself with the thought that, once they were all back in the real world together, he would finally be able to meet Sam again. In anticipation of what was to come he'd even transferred down South, thereby avoiding Sam professionally and edging himself closer to Alex in the process. It had all been working out rather spectacularly - Sam and Alex had successful careers in the force and all he had to do was wait just a bit longer - so he'd been devastated when Sam, after pulling through his coma, had thrown himself off the roof of his station. He understood why his old friend had jumped: Sam had went back for Annie. And he could understand why Alex hadn't told him what Sam would do - he wasn't sure he'd have been able to sit back and do nothing if he'd known what was going to happen. Still, he hadn't liked it but for the last year or so he'd consoled himself with the thought that at least Sam was happy where he was, with Annie - and that his own reunion with Alex had to be just around the corner.

Opening his eyes as the lift came to a halt he checked the floor number and exited when it met with his approval. Following the signs he took a right down the corridor and towards Alex. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she'd misled him about her own fate, if it turned out as heartbreaking as Sam's had been. He'd waited so long for her, and he'd happily wait another twenty-five years, but it would be too much to bear if it had all been for nothing. As he took a sharp left he determined that if she didn't pull through then he'd follow Sam's lead and go up to the roof - and when he got back to that other place, back to Alex, he'd bollock her for deceiving him.

He came to a stop when he reached her room, his heart thumping and his guts twisting once more. With a deep breath he pushed the door open, stepped inside and found her in a similar condition as that other time, although now she surrounded by much sleeker technology. Her head was swathed in bandages, and the monitors were flashing with information that he really didn't understand, but she looked like she was merely sleeping. Letting the door shut behind him he edged toward her, trying to swallow down the lump that had formed in his throat at the sight of her as he moved. When he reached her side he slowed down though his heart and his guts continued their respective paces. Staring at her pale face he wondered if she was back there right then; he couldn't claim to have understood half of what had happened to him, to them - he wasn't sure he really understood how they could meet as they had done to begin with - but she'd been right about enough things for him to believe that she could still be there right now. And he couldn't help but wonder if she was still with him - slapping him, punching him, shouting at him, kissing him - or if he'd already gone, had left her all alone. "Bols," he said softly into the deathly quiet room, his hand searching out hers.

She knew there was another question still to come so she waited, his hand now back in hers, his eyes searching hers from across the table, until it finally came."You will be there won't you, Bols?"

"Yes," she answered quickly and firmly, the thought of going home to Molly and to him almost negating the one other factor she'd been blissfully ignoring whilst working out her happy ending. She didn't know for certain that either of them would make it home. She had a bullet in her head and Gene... Well, it didn't look good either. Maybe the reason that Gene Hunt had never presented himself to either her or Sam was because he'd died in the real 1983; maybe she was only here to make him realise that. If that was the case then this world really was as cruel as she'd thought it to be at times. And she didn't know what that would mean for her - would she still return home, albeit without him, or was she already, too? She wanted to repeat her positive reply, if not for his sake then for hers, but the word got stuck in her throat. Though she had no idea what would happen, the one thing she was certain of, as his hand still gripped hers and a smile finally started to take over his mouth, was that they were going to take the required leap of faith together. It would have to be enough.

Still holding on to his hand she rose slowly from her chair, coming to stand in front of him. Tomorrow they would follow through on the blag they'd been investigating for almost a month and then - hopefully - they'd find their home. Maybe not together and maybe not at the same time but they would see each other again. She tugged on his hand, urging him to stand. Just in case she'd got everything wrong - it wouldn't be the first time - and she never saw him again she was going to make the most of what could be their last night together. Gene still held her hand and even though she couldn't find the words to tell him what she wanted right then he understood her actions, his fingers moving to lace with hers as he stood. She didn't think he understood her doubts but she wasn't about to enlighten him; if he went home without her, as heartbreaking as that would be, at least she'd have done some good here. At least she'd have set him free. Smiling at him, she turned and lead him up to her flat.

He must have jumped a good inch at least when she opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. Quickly regaining his composure he searched her eyes for a sign that she really was his Alex but it was her hand, now tightening on his, that confirmed his hopes. All this time, the decades spent waiting, had been worth it just for this one moment alone. He couldn't keep the relief, the happiness, the sheer joy inside and the frown that had marked his face for the last two days finally gave way.

"Gene," she whispered happily as his fingers reciprocated her gesture. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been skidding the Quattro around a corner in pursuit of their suspects, his face set with the fiery determination that she found so damn attractive. She'd been too busy staring at him to notice that the tunnel ahead, the one they'd driven through so many times before, had turned a misty white; it'd only been Gene's muttered comment about 'bloody fog' that had alerted her to the news that their end was nigh - though she'd kept on staring at him. Had kept on hoping that she'd somehow see him again. And when the brightness had disappeared, when she'd come round in hospital and Molly had been there, Evan hovering in the background, she'd been so happy. To be here, alive and well, and with her daughter was what she'd wanted from the start of her strange journey but it was a happiness that had felt incomplete. Until now. "You found me."

"You were plastered all over the news," he replied, stepping a little closer to her. "Bit hard to miss, Bols." She smiled at him in response and he thought it was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. Unable to hold back any longer he leant down towards her, his descent slow enough to give her time to protest if she wished, if it was too much too soon. When she showed no sign of denying him he brushed his mouth against hers with just enough pressure to send sparks of electricity across his lips. He didn't press her any further than that, there'd be time for more later, when she was better, when she was out of hospital. "I bloody missed you though," he confessed instead, his face inches from hers.

She didn't think she could smile any wider than she already was when he said that but her still tingling lips proved her wrong. She raised her free hand up to his face, tracing the skin with her fingers and her eyes. This was really her Gene; he looked a little younger - though she thought that might have something to do with the shorter haircut - and maybe a little thinner, too but otherwise he was the same man, the man she'd met in a dream. Time had likely changed him in other, less visible, ways but that wouldn't matter either; nothing would be able to change what they'd shared together - there was a bond between them that was unbreakable, his presence at the hospital confirmed that. He'd waited for her. Her thumb moved to brush against the hairs on his cheek, an act she'd first carried out in that other world, "You kept the sideburns."

"Remembered how fond of them you were," he replied, smiling at her and when her hand slipped around his head and into his hair, pulling him back down, he took it to mean that she still was.